Deep Roots Are Not Reached By The Frost (Dunland)
by Meysun
Summary: Teenage Thorin is trying to settle in Dunland with his family. When Thrain is forced to offer his services to Men during the winter, Thorin promises to take care of his siblings and people. But the Raven Thrain swore to send never arrives. As Thorin fears for his father, and worries for his grandfather, two tall strangers reach the settlement. Could they have news, and answers?
1. Chapter 1

**A/N** : _Hello my dears... A heartfelt thank you to those who have endured incessant notifications in their mailboxes, without reading nothing new about "The King of Carven Stone", you are angels! And even more thank you if it has made you re-read my stuff, especially to those who left reviews!_

 _At the beginning of this, Thorin is twenty-six, about thirteen in human age. Afterwards, you can divide his age per two to get its Human equivalent. The story is as usual told by elder Thorin as he lies dying on Ravenhill._

 _Dear readers, the editing is done! Hurray! I promise that from now on, the only notifications you'll get should you still be following me will be about *new* chapters! Enjoy, feel free to leave a comment (even to complain about incessant editing) and take care! Till soon, much love, Meysun._

* * *

 **The King of Carven Stone : Part VI**

 **Deep Roots Are Not Reached By The Frost (Dunland)**

 **1.**

"Thorin, you go and fetch Dís, I'm fed up with her."

Frerin was pulling me by the hem of my shirt and I let out a groan. I had just rinsed myself from the soot I was always bringing back from the forge, had barely had the time to pull on a clean tunic and was basically just yearning for a moment of peace and silence, where I could be alone – not thinking, not even moving, just watch the sun set on the Dunland hills after another hard day of working.

It had been two years. Two years since we had crossed the Misty Mountains, and entered this broad, savage lands – the carts full with the few belongings we still had, pulled by grim-faced Dwarves who knew they had nothing else left to lose. Not in this land where there seemed to be no King, and no God – only black-faced, swarthy Men who had sworn everlasting hatred to Helm's descendants, ever since they had been defeated by the troops of both Rohan and Gondor, pushed back in Dunland and left there to rot.

Or so they said, snarling the words, their eyes wary, always narrowed in suspicion, even as they watched us carve whatever they asked of us – arrow-heads, flails, knives, asking us to make them sharp and light, and making me shiver as I obeyed, wondering in which bodies these rough, savage hands would bury them.

"Animals", my father said softly, one day, as he noticed my uneasiness, watching the three Dunlandings walk away, shouldering heavy bags, turning from the smithy we had rented for the day in one of their settlements.

"We help them to hunt, _dashat_. Their war ended long ago.

\- What war?", Dwalin asked, for he was there as well.

Following Balin in the forge, pursuing the apprenticeship he had begun in the Iron Hills, getting used to these limited tools, furnaces and metals swiftly, trying to make the best of it, as usual, while I usually worked with my father.

His hands enclosing my wrist, helping me to bend the metal while it was hot, showing me the exact spot to hit so that it could be done in a few, swift moves. Teaching me how to master the fire, adapting it to the work that was required – and never scolding me when I failed to repress a start, as the flames would leap up higher than expected, bringing me back to a greater Fire I would never be able to forget.

"This fire is ours", he would say softly, taking the bellows from my hand and showing me how it was supposed to be done. "It only dances the way we blow it."

I would nod, my throat dry, so relieved that he was there.

Because he was.

Had been, ever since that day I had felt his hand on my neck, the morning after that Wolf had almost killed me. Not in the obvious, harsh and resolute way my grandfather was, appointing tasks and deciding, every evening, what was to be done the next day.

Not in Balin's way, smiling, explaining, making sure we could learn something in every village we crossed – be it the settlement's name, or getting a closer look on agricultural techniques while we forged ploughs and scythes.

Not in Dagur's loud, thundering way – making sure we kept trained, didn't lose our sparring and fighting skills, prompting us to practice, almost every day. Even Frerin – and I can still hear Dagur's laughter as he wrestled with him, allowing him to spend all his energy and frustration at being so young and small still. And Dwalin and me, of course – and we would, facing each other even as our muscles ached from our day, determined to remember that we were both more than smiths-to-be.

Both sons of warriors. Their kingdom lost, but their blood still flowing.

And so we would fight, and spar – and how strong he was, Dwalin, how strong... I had to spin and shift like the wind, to use my lighter weight as a tool and to give up the axe for the sword if I ever hoped to defeat him, and even then, I would often bite the dust, pinned down, his broad hands upon my shoulders, my breath short and my locks plastered to my head.

"Thorin, I'd feel better if you would just use your other hand..."

He would always release me instantly, taking no pleasure in victory – while I just felt glad, glad that he was not letting me win, glad that I could trust him so as to see where I was still weak, and in need of more training.

I would sit up, my heart racing in my chest, shaking my head.

"No. Tie it back, please, it slipped."

And he would, his brown eyes somewhat dark – tie back the small rope that was restraining my right hand against my back, forcing me to fight with the left. Until it would become as natural to use that hand than it was for me to breathe. Until I could face him with both arms, as an equal.

"It's hurting you. When I pin you down. I don't want to break your hand.

\- You won't. It doesn't hurt."

And we would resume our fighting, sword against sword, our bodies dancing in the twilight, colliding, avoiding each other, falling down in a wrestle that was almost an embrace. Only stopping when I was the one seated on Dwalin's chest – not because I had won, not really. Because the rope had slipped, had gotten loose, because we were both tired, and sweaty, because my hands were around his wrists, yet had no strength left to restrain him.

He would drag up his knees and let me rest my back against them, closing his eyes while I desperately tried to gather my breath again.

"Enough?", he would ask, his fingers following the bruise the rope had left on my wrist – and I let him, still leaning against his knees.

I always let him, especially these moments where I was so exhausted I could have laid down on the ground next to him and fall asleep at once.

"Yeah...", I would whisper, finally, forcing myself to free him and to get up, drenched in sweat and so, so tired. "Enough. For today.

\- You'll be the death of me. You know that."

I remember that smile, that way he had to get up in a single move, shaking himself like a fierce dog so as to get rid of the dust, and picking up the swords we had both discarded...

"Yeah. Have to keep you entertained."

He would drag me against him, then, still carrying the weapons, leading me back to the tent he was sharing with me, Frerin and Dís, while my father occupied the other with Balin, leaving the largest to my grandfather.

Tents were our home, these two years – because we were roaming Dunland, settling close to a village for a while, buying food and using the smithies they let us work in to forge our own weapons and tools, as a matter of payment. Trying to see where it could be possible to settle down into harder walls, and always finding it would have to remain a wish.

Because there was not enough work, or food – and often, because there was not enough goodwill, for the Dunlandings were a fierce and distrustful folk, wondering who we were, this sparse troop of Dwarves that had come out of nowhere, just as if earth had spat them out, or so they said...

"What war?", Dwalin asked, and my brother came closer as well.

He had swept the forge, had gathered the dust with a broomstick and a shovel he had emptied endless times, only stopping when he had finished. I had seen him bend upon the soot with a grin, dipping his finger into it – but then the Men had come and we had all resumed our forging, and I had forgotten about it.

"That war!", Frerin yelled, hurling himself at him – and it startled him, before he burst out in laughter, because my brother's faced was smeared.

Covered in black drawings that didn't really help to make him look fiercer – and neither did his small, pearl-white teeth he was still determined to bare.

"Look, ' _adad_ , I have the same tattoos as you! I'm going to win, I'm going to pin you all down and they will all be afraid and beg me to be as merciful as Mahal..."

I do remember him, that day, in the forge, so determined to make us see he was also there, worthy and willing, even though he was too small to help us with the heavy tools we forged and carried, even though he would often fall asleep in my father's arms as we walked back to our settlement, spent by his efforts and his striving...

And I do remember that sound – that amazing, blissful sound that never failed to fill my heart with wonder: my father's low, deep laughter, filling the forge with more love and warmth than the fire, as he scooped Frerin up to hold him against him.

"Let them all tremble...", he whispered, and Frerin anchored his legs around his waist and settled against his shoulder, pleased beyond measure.

"Do they look like yours, ' _adad_?", he asked, turning his face towards him, smearing soot against Thráin's working shirt, and causing my father to smile.

"Almost", he answered, searching for a clean spot in my brother's face, finding one close to his eyes and kissing him carefully there.

"What war, Balin...?", Dwalin whispered, still determined to get his answer, and yearning for some respite, I could see it in the way he leant against his hammer, and in the hunched set of his shoulders, for the day was late already.

Balin saw it too – as well as my brother's heavy lids, who had grown still and silent against my father as Thráin had begun to brush his back. And I believe he also guessed it from the way my gaze kept searching for the sky, yearning for the sun to set, finally, so that we could smother the fire and go to whatever place it was we called home.

He looked at my father, and Thráin nodded, discreetly.

"Right, lads. Gather the tools. Leave that place as clean as it was before we came, and make sure not to forget anything. I'll tell you about war while we get done..."

Dwalin smiled, and Frerin slid down my father's arms, determined to act his part as well. And as we obeyed – washing our tools carefully, piling them up in the cart my father would push back, making sure the fire was dead, we listened to Balin's tale, our shadows getting longer in the setting sun.

"It was not so long ago... The year where open war between Dunland and Rohan begun. The Rohirrim fighting from the kingly place they call Meduseld... and the Dunlandings from the fortress of Isengard. Fighting each other for land.

\- When?", Dwalin asked, and Balin smiled.

\- In the year 2746 of the Third Age. A year that was _fantêrâs_ , for us.

\- But that _was_ long ago...", I muttered, frowning as I wiped a stripe of leather across the anvil, and Balin chuckled, because it was actually the year I was born.

"So... They fought each other and the battle lasted years. And there was this Man, Wulf... They say here he had Dunlandish blood, for his father was dark-haired and shorter than the Rohirrim, who have golden hair and clear eyes...

\- Just like me", Frerin whispered, making a few dancing steps around the broom he was sweeping on the ground.

"Aye, laddie, just like you. So, he was the son of a Horse-lord too, but Wulf's father had defied their King, Helm – coming to his court with armed men, asking him to wed his daughter to Wulf. And the King refused, striking him down with a single blow – that is why they called him Helm _Hammerhand_ , ever since that day... But Wulf never forgot, and years afterwards, he took his revenge with leading the Dunlandings against his own King and kin, determined to get the throne by force, since he could not get it by marriage.

\- Traitor...", Dwalin grumbled, wrapping up hammer and thongs in a cloth and tying the knot in brisk, fierce moves.

"About twelve years later he fought King Helm's men at the crossing of the river Isen... And he was quite successful, actually, for he forced the Rohirrim to abandon Meduseld and to withdraw to a fortress named Hornburg – a place they now call Helm's Deep...

\- And that's where they are now?", Frerin asked, frowning at the injustice, while my father gently ruffled his hair, taking shovel and broom from his hands.

"No. For that year, Nature stepped into war – inexorable and not caring about King, traitors or children. That year, the winter was hard and so cold that everything was buried under snow. Meduseld, Isengard and the Hornburg. Cold, and starvation – hitting both sides alike."

I paused in mid-move, my fingers frozen around the knot I was trying to bind. I paused, and as I listened to Balin's voice, taking in the tale, I was also dragged back. To that hard, cold, white world that always meant so much pain and fear... That terrible morning where I had felt a soft breath against my neck and known that it meant death. The day I had lost Svali, close to a white tomb of ice and snow...

"Wulf was sitting on the throne in Meduseld, but the true King was holding the fortress in Helm's Deep, no matter how hard and terrible his losses. They say he lost both of his sons. One in battle and the other in the snow, but that he still went on fighting and raging. Warning his foes sounding the great Horn, deep into the Suthburg, and then setting out in the snow to slay them with his bare hands... They were all so afraid of him, so afraid... They said he died in the snow, as well, that one day he set out, never to return, and his sister-son took up his throne instead."

Balin quenched the fire, slowly pouring water upon the embers, unabashed by the smell, and then he went on, quietly.

"His name is Fréaláf, but they call him _Hildeson_ , for that was his mother's name. Hild, sister of Helm, who gave birth to the first King of the second line of Eorl's house. And he managed it, as soon as spring came. Took back Edoras and killed Wulf, avenging his uncle's and his cousins' death, and driving Dunlandings away from Rohan, with the helps of the troops Gondor had finally been able to send to them... And so – Dunland is no longer considered part of the realm of Rohan, despite its fertile lands. The Rohirrim will not forgive the Dunlandings for their deeds, just as the Men in Dunland vowed they would always seek to avenge the slight done to them with Wulf's death – the only lord who remembered them, and fought for them and their rights... Or so they say...

\- This is sad", Dwalin said, simply, and his brother nodded.

"Aye. Like every tale of war."

Balin sighed, and his eyes swept across the place, searching for tools we might have forgotten, and finding me still kneeling on the ground, my fingers numb around a knot I did not manage to tie.

"You are all right, lad?", he asked softly, stepping up to me and finishing my knot for me.

Dwalin was already outside, helping my father to load the cart, and hoisting Frerin up with the tools – I could hear my brother laugh, that tale of blood and snow seemingly forgotten as soon as the words had been spoken.

"Yes...", I said, trying to steady my voice, and to banish those raging images from my mind.

 _Of snow, covering everything. Of dead bodies of Princes, fallen in battle – lost in white nothingness. Of a King – so fierce, charging out in the snow after a final blow of his mighty Horn. Of starvation. Of cold, cold, cold..._

Just as I feel it now _._

"I am fine...", I whispered, though, that day, forcing myself to get up.

It was warm, it was summer, it was Dunland, and I was alive. Alive, with Balin, Dwalin, my father and my brother. No need to be afraid of snow, or fire. Heading to that place we called home, that tent where my sister was waiting for us, where I could lose myself in her soft, childish world...

"You go and fetch her, this time."

And of course I went, as soon as Frerin released his impatient grasp on my arm and ran away, searching for Dwalin instead. I knew where I would find her – in the small tent she had built close to trees, a week ago, using our winter-scarves and old fur-coats, spending her days there, since we were all gone, since there was no other Dwarven child to play with her.

Not bothering anyone, only coming out to eat, and often taking her small ration there, the old Dwarrowdams in our settlement too weary to scold her.

Waiting for our return, yet hiding as we would come back, trying to shield herself against the ache of having to see us go, every morning, without being able to follow. She had cried, at first, but gradually she had found another way. Built herself a dream-world where she pretended not to need anyone, making us fight hard for one of her kisses – since we were going, always going and leaving her behind.

"Dís...", I called, softly, crouching in front of the tent's narrow entry. "It's me, _mamarlûna_.

\- Come in..."

Her voice was soft, and sounded far away, I got down on my knees and pushed the fabric aside so as to cast a glance into my sister's small haven.

She had spread one of my father's old fur-coats on the ground, and was sitting backed up against the trunk of a tree that served as a pillar, her knees dragged up, the small iron figurines Dwalin and me had made for her with scraps of iron from the forge carefully displayed at her side. There were empty nut-shells she had placed between daisy-heads, forming a decorative border on the ground beneath her, and she had also gathered pebbles she was currently sorting out, frowning as her fingers pushed them back and forth before her.

It was hot in the tent, and her locks were plastered against her forehead, but she didn't seem to mind – just looked at me and repeated her offer.

"Come in.

\- I can't, Dís. I'm too big.

\- Not if you lie down..."

Her eyes met mine and I nodded – knowing there was no other way to coax her out and bring her back to us. I lay down and carefully made my way in – half of my body still outside, yet managing to squeeze in up to the waist.

I folded my arms and rested my chin upon them, and just watched her sorting out the pebbles. She had made several piles, and I noticed she had picked up only black, green and grey ones, and that she never wavered in placing them in the right pile.

"Onyx... Emerald... Moonstone... Emerald... Emerald... Onyx..."

It was hot, in her small tent, yet her voice was soft and had a soothing note. It always had. I never could get enough of it – never. Not her voice, not her touch. And so I just stayed there, and watched her, until she finished.

"You like it, Thorin?

\- Very much."

She smiled then, and her fingers brushed the corner of my eye.

"There's something black here. It's all smeared now.

\- Soot", I said. "I must have forgotten that part when I washed.

\- Wait..."

She licked her thumb and went on brushing my face, and I closed my eyes, wishing I was small enough to fit in that tent as well – to be able to think of rough pebbles as emeralds and moonstones, to see flowers and nuts as magical adornments, and to wash soot, weariness and memories away.

"There. All clean. Now you can meet Lela.

\- Lela?

\- Yes. She's there. Sitting next to me. She thinks you are handsome. She says she wants to hear your voice."

I opened my eyes and looked at her – and there must have been fear and worry in my gaze, because I knew there was no one else in that tent... But then I remembered Frerin shouting at Dís a few days earlier, mentioning that name and calling her a liar.

I looked at my sister, who was looking at me defiantly. Daring me to tell her there was no one, that she was feeling so lonely that she was actually imagining her – that friend sitting in the tent next to her, keeping her company.

"Hello, Lela", I said softly, and Dís smiled, radiantly, almost giggling as I went on: "Moonlight upon your eve.

\- She says the same to you. She asks you how you find her…

\- Oh, I find her... Forgive me, I find _you_ very agreeable, Lela. These silver ribbons are very fitting, very fitting indeed...

\- They are blue", Dís giggled. "She says they match your eyes. She's so stupid..."

I smiled, taking in my sister's flushed cheek and damp hair. It was too hot here, and she was getting over-excited – but she was happy, and eagerly waiting for my next words.

"Now that's not a very nice thing to say to a friend, is it? See, she's all sad, chewing her lip, trying not to cry... She didn't mean it, Lela, do not worry, she is just hungry...

\- I'm not!

\- But I am. And so, dearest Lela, I wish you a pleasant evening and an even more pleasant night. If you meet my sister, would you be so kind to tell her I came, and yearned for one of her kisses but had to leave, for I am expected at dinner. Thank you very much..."

And with these words I slowly crawled out of the tent, hearing Dís' sounds of both laughter and begging.

"Thorin, she wants you back...

\- Goodbye..."

I dragged myself up, brushed my hands against my trousers and turned, pretending to walk away slowly. Repressing a smile when I heard the fierce way the heavy fabric was pushed aside, and when a hot, small body crashed into my side.

"Oh, hello, _mamarlûna_...

\- Bend _down_..."

She was pulling at my arm, and I gave in, feeling her lips press themselves fiercely against my cheek, making me laugh as she finally pulled away with a grin. I brushed her hair, putting back a loose strain behind her ear, and Dís leaned into my embrace again.

"It's beautiful. Your tent. What you did inside. It's beautiful.

\- Frerin doesn't like it.

\- Frerin is jealous because you don't let him in. But I'm sure he'll love your precious stones, and the flowers you picked.

\- No. He makes fun of Lela. He says she's in my head. She's not in my head. She's there, and she's my friend. She picked up the flowers.

\- Beautiful flowers...", I simply said, and then I picked her up, like a flower indeed, hoisting her on my hip, slowly walking back towards the tents.

My sister rested her head against my neck and I could breathe in her sent – she smelt of fresh sweat, of earth, of daisies and of the honey-flavoured soap we all used, and I loved it.

"Are you leaving tomorrow again?", Dís asked, and I shook my head.

"No. Tomorrow we rest, remember? Every seven days. Time to wash the clothes, and to hang them, and...

-... to mend your socks. They all have holes. I'll show you.

\- All right. Show Dwalin as well, remember? His socks are worse than mine.

\- Maybe...", Dís voiced, slowly, and I had to laugh.

"Will we read tonight, Thorin? There's almost no light, it's late...

\- There will be time tomorrow. Do not worry, _mamarlûna_. We will read a bit tomorrow, and then you will write and count with Balin, will you? It's important. I want you to learn everything we were taught, Frerin and me, so that everyone knows how smart my Dís is."

She smiled then, and we both walked back to the fires where dinner was being cooked. There was no time to read that night – it was late, and she was exhausted, almost falling asleep above her soup, such as Frerin was. My father had to carry them both into the tent – neither of them was willing to walk, and when he came back he simply looked at Dwalin and me, leaning against each other, our lids heavy and our eyes lost in the fire.

"To bed. Both of you. You have strived enough."

Neither of us tried to argue. We just stood up, slowly, and as we passed him he brushed our arms – both Dwalin's and mine.

" _Maikhmini_."

The soft word was enough to fill us with pride, and we both lay down, so tired that we fell asleep before reaching our pillow, ready to sleep heavily until sunrise.

Yet that night, I woke up with a choked scream, shaking and struggling to breathe. There was lead on my chest, and ashes in my mouth – ashes or snow, I did not know, I did not know...

"It's alright... It's alright... It's just a dream, sparrow, it's just a dream..."

And a dream it had been. A dream of snow, and war, and fierce deeds in a world that snatched children and warriors away – no matter how worthy and brave they were... A dream that came shattering my peace, unwanted, unexpected, without any reason, leaving me breathless and covered with cold sweat, huddled against Dwalin, exactly like two years ago.

"I'm sorry...", I whispered, as soon as I was able to frame the words. "I'm sorry..."

He just held me. He knew it was pointless to ask me to stop apologising, that it was just my way to realise I was back. In a tent, yes, but not _that_ tent. A tent where he was too, where it was warm, because it was summer, because we were sleeping in green hills, forging and fighting, until we would be wealthy enough to build a true home.

"What was it about?", he asked softly, but I just shook my head, burying my head in the crook of his shoulder.

"Nothing..."

He sighed, simply holding me close. That night he slept next to me, unwilling to release his embrace, determined to shield me even from my dreams. And I did not lift my head, did not move, my arms wrapped tightly around him, even as I felt his breath getting deeper and began to hear the familiar, soft noise of his snoring.

I did not lift my head, not even as I felt tears begin to stream down my cheeks, falling softly against his tunic. Tears for Itô and Svali, even here, in green lands and summer, where war was supposed to be only a memory, but seemed to be ever-present.

Tears of fear – for that King charging out blindly in the snow, after he lost everything, his Horn a last warning of his cold, wild wrath...

Just as I did, in the end.

And tears of relief. For the snores so close to my ear, telling me I was not alone, no matter how afraid and lost I felt. For the sound I had heard, the day before – my father laughing, his grey eye full of love and awareness. For my little brother's soot-stained face, that looked anything but fierce, and that was now clean as he slept soundly on his roll next to me. For Balin's twinkle, and the quiet way he seemed to guess each of my father's thoughts, easing his burden and anchoring him to us. And for my sister, so sweet and yet so full of temper, who saw moonstones and emeralds where there were only pebbles, and whose voice always meant home to me...

I had heard my father speak to Balin and Nár, these days. I had heard them discuss the option of staying here – for that spot offered the shelter of trees, and clean water. It was also close to three villages, only half a walking day away, and would allow us to run our own forge, should we decide to fold the tents and build more solid houses instead.

"No stone, except for the forge", I had heard him say. "There are not enough guaranties. But wood. It could be wood. Try and bring it to my father, Nár. I think it would be good to settle down, be it only for a while."

They had nodded, and I had felt some hope – because I wanted it so badly, to know that I wouldn't have to pack my bag once more, not for a while, and to leave that tent that only brought me back to the road, even in my dreams...

A house of wood. Where there would be a room for my father, another for Balin, one for Dwalin and me... No, we could not afford that. One for my father, another for Balin, and another for the rest of us. And my grandfather... He would have a house of his own, probably. He wouldn't want the noise we all made, wouldn't want to deal with my siblings and me – yes, he would have a house of his own and we would all stay together and my father would go on laughing and smiling and working and teaching me how to rule the fire...

A house of wood. And pebbles, and daisies on the windowsill – and a place to put down my mother's harp, as well...

A house of wood was enough already. Enough to lull me back to sleep, still tangled in Dwalin's embrace, forgetting about snow, war, Kings and weapons.

Letting dreams chase old nightmares away.

* * *

 **Neo-Khuzdul translations:**

\- _Maikhmini_ : thank you.


	2. Chapter 2

**The King of Carven Stone : Part VI**

 **Deep Roots Are Not Reached By The Frost (Dunland)**

 **2.**

It was not stone. It was no Mountain. It was not even a hill, and it was not remotely big enough for three Dwarflings and a grown-up Dwarf – but it was a house.

And a home. Carefully built by my father, who had used all his craftsmanship and practical thinking so as to make the best of that small, crowded space. Using only wood, careful to reign in his plans, and to take from Dunland only as much as it was able to give.

Wood it was – and Thráin had been happy, all these long days of striving where he had left the forge for the trees, helping to fell them, bringing them back to what was to be our settlement, directing all the able Dwarves among us so that every family could have it, that small house of wood telling silently we would not leave, at least not immediately.

There were many able Dwarves, but my father... My father was no match – not when his mind was intent, and clear-sighted, and focused on the sole aim to see us all settled safely, in harder walls, be it only wood.

Thráin was no match – and it was wonderful to see him like this, working from dawn to dusk, dressed in the rough working clothes he loved so much, not caring for my grandfather's displeasure. Cutting, shaping, carving, piling, shifting – and smiling, every time his gaze met mine, or Balin's, every time Frerin pressed his small body against his, every time Dís would bring him water, earnestly handing him his cup, her face brightening as he kissed her.

He was so strong – his muscles hard as iron beneath his shirt... He was so determined. I could read it in his eye, in the way his hands closed upon his tools, never stopping, his able fingers transforming thoughts into actions – making him whole, for a while, standing tall under the warm, red sun. Building a home for those he held dear.

He made one for my grandfather first. A small house, that had only two rooms – one that remained private, and another where Dwarves could be received, if required – where matters could be discussed, and councils held if needed, but where there never was any space for children, not even a spare bed for a son, or a friend. Just a big table, with many chairs, and a broad fireplace that was the only element of stone and iron Thráin allowed himself to build.

"I don't need that", Thrór growled, fiercely, as he saw my father kneeling, carefully paving the floor of the fireplace, his hands stained with a mixture of crushed rocks and burnt lime that would help sticking the stones together.

"Keep the stone. I have no need for fire. Never had. Leave it for the lads.

\- I will. There is enough for us all...", my father replied softly, not looking up, still bent upon his task, his fingers unwavering as they made sure the stones were paved in an even line.

"You are wasting your time – you know that? You know that, Thráin...

\- Aye. I know that."

He had whispered the words still kneeling on the ground, and I saw him close his eye for some seconds, as his palms rested upon the stone. Trying to muster his strength once more – because he would build that fireplace for his ageing father, he would not see him cold yet too proud to shiver, would not let Thrór's pride be the death of him, no matter how hard his words, and how icy his gaze.

"It will help to light the room, grandfather", I said, shyly stepping up to him. "When you will have Dwarves sitting there... and asking you for advice... They will be glad for your fire...

\- And you think it will make them listen more?", Thrór snorted. "I have no need for drowsy, heavy-lidded, whimpering men – cold helps to clear thoughts, and it has never done much harm, has it now?"

I did not answer. I just stormed out of his house, that day, grabbing a shovel and some tools, pretending they were needed elsewhere – because I was afraid to lose it, right there, before him, and shout at him on top of my lungs that it had, it _had_ and that he had no right to snort and bring my father's efforts down, no right at all...

"You dropped that one..."

Frerin's voice was low, somewhat wary, but as caring as ever. He had followed me to the brink of the trees where I stood, trying to calm myself down, to fight back that helpless rage threatening to drown me, making my pulse throb and my chest burn.

"The shovel. I suppose you don't need it. Unless you want to bury someone alive. I'd advise you to choose another spot, however... It's a bit exposed, and muffled screams are a nuisance when one tries to sleep..."

I huffed, despite of myself, feeling some of my anger ebb, and relaxing slightly when I felt my brother's body against my back.

"What is it?", he asked softly, drawing his arms around my waist and resting his cheek against my shoulder blade. "You look like a storm cloud on the verge of bursting...

\- Beware then", I let out, still staring grimly at the soft, green hills that seemed motionless under the hot summer sun.

"Oh, I'm not afraid...", Frerin whispered. "Could use some rain and thunder... If it helps...

\- You always help. You know that."

I had turned – had drawn my arm around him and had dragged him against my side, and my brother smiled, gazing up at me, his grey eyes lightening up.

"' _Adad_ said I can help him with the beds. He said no one has ever seen beds like those we are going to build. They will be benches during the day, and beds at night – yours, and mine, that is, I think he's planning something else for Dís but he said it's a secret. Thorin – there's no one like ' _adad_ , is it...?"

I stayed silent for a while, my gaze averted once more.

"No. There's no one like _'adad_ ", I answered softly, brushing my brother's shoulder.

He was so small, so tiny still... While I was growing, struggling to get used to these long limbs, to that body that seemed to get taller every time I slept – how else was it to be explained, that awkwardness I felt every time I moved, every time I spoke as well, because my voice tried to get deeper yet was only managing to break, most of the time, making me wish I'd never have to use it again...?

I hated it, when my father made me stand before him and extend my hands, showing my tunic had gotten too short _again_ , after barely two months of use – it was awful, to know they would have to alter the clothes again, just because my limbs were so determined to get longer, it made me feel like a freak.

Especially that I was not gaining any weight. I was still thin, and lean, and it looked ridiculous compared to Dwalin's strong body, filling me with rage every time I had to undress. I was strong, was striving to prove it every day – but I had abandoned hope to see my muscles develop as well as my bones. Doomed. I was just doomed.

And tired – always tired, my limbs hurting and my chest filled with explosive feelings that I barely managed to rein in. Exactly as today – and it was driving me mad. Fed up with that awkward body I didn't control anymore, with the scratchy stubble that was beginning to cover my cheeks but was still determined to grow slowly, and to shame me.

"There's something bothering you...", Frerin said, his face pressed into my chest. "Don't say no. I know there is, when your eyes get that special _I'm-going-to-burn-you-alive_ kind of glare... And I'm not afraid, even with you all tall and lanky, mind.

\- Hey, watch it, _kudz_."

My voice broke – once more. I cleared my throat, and my brother just held me, knowing I hated it with a passion, the way it broke and hitched, desperately trying to get deeper, and still failing.

"Watch it yourself. And don't pretend to forget I asked you something."

I just groaned. And in the end – seeing he did not let go and still stood there, waiting for me to speak and holding me – in the end I spoke, not caring for the hoarseness in my voice, for my brother never laughed at me when he knew it truly hurt.

"It's grandfather. He's... he's just impossible.

\- Aye. But that's not new, is it?"

There was a grown-up dryness in Frerin's voice that made me smile, despite of myself, and in the end we both sat down, close to each other, our shoulders touching as we leaned against the trunk of a tree too broad to be felled.

"No", I whispered. "It's just that... _now_... it's getting hard to... hard to bear. I don't know how ' _adad_ manages it. I just don't know... I could... I could have...

\- Say it", my brother said, and I heard the begin of a grin in his voice.

\- No.

\- Say it aloud, Thorin, come on.

\- No, don't be silly, one cannot just...

\- Don't _you_ be silly. Say it aloud. There's no one around, it's just me and you know I won't tell him, why would I, I regularly curse him in a way that would make poor Balin swallow his beard..."

He was grinning openly now and I gave him a soft nudge in the ribs, with my elbow.

"Coward...", Frerin whispered, turning towards me. "Big, lanky coward...

\- Watch out...

\- Brave boy. Brave boy, shiny, well-bred, sweet little grandson..."

I snarled then, and hurled myself at him. And he laughed, even as I pinned him down, his chest quivering with laughter, even as I bent his face down to rub it against the moss growing there. And then I let him push me away, still laughing – push me against the tree, his hands around my wrists, pressing them against the bark while he sat himself on my legs.

"You braaaaaave boy...

\- I could...

\- You braaaaaave little boy...

\- I could have punched him in the face."

I had let out the words in a single, fierce, breath, looking straight at my brother who simply arched an eyebrow.

"I could have... taken the shovel from ' _adad's_ hand and rubbed crushed lime all over his face...

\- In his beard...", Frerin whispered, his knees tightening around my legs.

"Yes. In his beard. And then... And then I could have yelled at him to leave ' _adad_ alone and stop talking and pretending that what ' _adad_ does is worthless and also told him that I'm so, so glad he's not living with us because it would have been a nightmare, and... and..."

I paused, somewhat breathless, overwhelmed by the terrible boldness in my words – and my brother laced his fingers with mine, determined to prevent me from feeling any shame.

"And...?", he asked softly.

"And – I would have felt awful and been charged with high-treason and probably deserved it, and it would have been the worst thing I ever did, but...

\- But you would have felt better", Frerin said, and I groaned, closing my eyes.

"Not better. Just... Relieved. For a short while, mind.

\- Aye. That's why it's good to do it like this. Shout it to the trees, they don't bother. And they don't charge brave boys for high treason.

\- Stop that, _kudz_.

\- Look at that sweet shiny grandson...

\- I said _stop it_."

He grinned at me, letting go of my hands slowly, still seated on my legs. And in the end I smiled, as well, dragging him against me and rubbing my nose against his head.

"You know, Thorin, actually it's somehow frightening...

\- What?

\- The way you manage to hide it so well... the punch in the face and the lime-smearing, oh Mahal, I thought I'd wet my pants with laughter when you said it, it was just so... _unexpected_...

\- Told you to beware", I muttered. "I'm not shiny. I'm not good. I'm not even well-bred.

\- I know. That's what I love so much in you", my brother laughed, settling against my chest. "Promise me we'll do that again. Calling him names and cursing his beard. That way we can keep up the pretence, and be all nice and sweet, as expected.

\- As expected...", I whispered, closing my eyes and leaning my head against the tree. "I'm so fed up with this, _kudz_ , you have no idea...

\- I do. Of course I do, Thorin."

He squeezed my legs gently between his knees and then he gave me a soft nudge.

"Come on. Time to bring that shovel back, don't you think? Hey – it's going to be so great once it will all be finished, just imagine that – we'll have beds, and a table, and when it's going to be winter we will be able to actually cook and eat our meals in the same room..."

His eyes had gotten a dreamy look and I reached out for his face, pushing one of his braids back, marvelling at his ability to see light and happiness absolutely everywhere.

"Yes. It is going to be great", I whispered, and then I got up, dragging him with me and walking back to my father, and his beautiful dream of wood and stone.

It was not grand – it truly was not much.

But my father made it great, somehow. Because his strength and love was absolutely everywhere – because his ideas shaped the walls, his mind working hard to make us all feel comfortable in such a crowded space.

He had a room of his own – he was Thrór's heir, after all, and had a right for intimacy, but he made it very small, so as to leave us all more space, since we were to be crowded in a single room, the three of us, along with the fireplace and the kitchen.

Yet he tried to give us all something.

Filled Dís with joy, causing her to jump excitedly up and down once she spotted her bed, because it was so _high_ and _wonderful..._ It was a loft bed, actually, and she could climb into it using a wooden ladder, leaving enough room beneath for her to store her toys, and even to build a tent should she feel like it – and I can still see her, embracing my father tightly, thanking him with a quivering voice for that bed that seemed made for a princess...

And as he promised Frerin, he also thought hard about our beds. Made them seemingly narrow, looking like benches, one close to the kitchen table and the other next to the fireplace – and yet... Once the table was pushed aside, one just had to pull a wooden drawer beneath the bench, and it expanded, leaving enough room for a full mattress, and blankets that were carefully stored into the drawer during the day.

My brother never tired of them. To him, it was always pure bliss to pull the drawers, and prepare our beds – it was actually hard to prevent him from meddling with mine, no matter how loud I yelled, pointing out the basic needs of _intimacy_ to him, causing Balin and my father to chuckle quietly, and Dwalin to hide a smile.

He was not living with me.

Dwalin and Balin had a small house of their own – because it was possible, and because it had to be so now that the tents were folded, now that a seemingly normal life had begun for us once more. They were our cousins and as such, lived right next to us – but they did not have to _live_ with us, and so they settled down in their little house.

Balin in a small room, like my father, and Dwalin in their common room, in a bed similar to mine, so that they both had their space and could rub along more easily.

It was so hard. So hard to lose him, so hard to have to get used to nights without his snoring, without his chest under my cheek, rising and falling slowly – without his arms around me, every time I would wake up, at night, not knowing where I was, having to reach out for the solid wooden frame around my mattress to remind me it was home...

Not the first few nights, where it was still funny and so amusing to think of our houses, to visit each other and to compare beds and rooms. But once novelty faded – I would feel a pang in my chest once the day was over, once I had to go back to my own house and climb into that bed I had desired so much, forced to face the night alone again.

That is why I never forced Fíli – never could bring myself to it. Never forced him out of the room he shared with Kíli, not even when he began to leave childhood, because I knew what it felt like, to miss closeness and safety... Knew it took time, to desire for intimacy and a private room when childhood was still so close – and that it was better to wait for that wish to come from Fíli himself. As it did in the end, causing Kíli to camp on his bed until he was dragged out and wailing – until he understood and started to love his own, private space as well...

My boys... My boys I never could bear to separate...

I wish it would stop. I wish it could stop – that endless dance of thoughts, flaring up and mocking me, with their sweetness... They ache, they ache and I cannot bear it anymore, I cannot bear it, I lost them, I lost them all and I just have my thoughts, so vivid and clear, sharp as a blade and just as deadly... Oh Mahal please take me, please take me, take me with my boys, my little boys, they are so small, so young, so afraid, they need me at their side, they need me...

But they won't want me.

They won't want me.

I can feel a fresh gush of blood against my palm – because my heart races madly, because I have been breathing like some kind of terrified _animal_... I cannot believe I feel this – terror, panic, Mahal, surely there is no sense in that, not anymore, surely I cannot fall lower than I am already, surely You will be merciful and give me strength to face even this...

The shame – and the knowledge that of course, should I reach Your Halls, they will be right to turn from me, just as everyone else...

I will try not to shame them. I will try to keep my breath even, as I watch that sun bleed out – they have the right not to be more ashamed than they already were, because of me... I will stay calm. I will stay silent, won't cry out or weep or move frantically to hasten death...

I will lie there as long as You wish me to. Give in to these memories and thoughts as long as You will have me to. I won't ask You to take me a moment sooner than the one You appointed to me – I will bear them, these thoughts, these aches, I promise...

I promise...

Dwalin. I want Dwalin. I want Dwalin, Dwalin, Dwalin...

Just as I did, these first weeks where we settled – and as my mind races back to these years, as I recall the way my childish self yearned for him, and the quiet, kind way he had to reassure me, as we worked close to each other in the forge, brushing my arm, telling me silently nothing had changed, that he still was there, and always would be...

As I recall him, focus on his face, on his touch, on this memory – I can feel my heartbeat slow down at last, can feel the pain in my chest recede slightly, and I cannot believe he is doing me good again, even without being there...

He always did.

Even back then, that evening we had been able to sneak out so as to meet each other for a late pipe, sharing some words or simply a private moment together that was not in the forge, not in our kitchen with my siblings around...

Just the two of us...

I remember this special evening. Where he could have shamed me – truly shamed me, yet only did me good, as always, showing me once more the true meaning of a friend. A friend so close that it was almost a brother.

That evening, I was upset – had not told anyone about it, of course, and yet that worry had been weighing down my mind for so long that I had almost resolved to talk to Dwalin about it... without ever managing to do so, shame always holding me back in the end.

It had begun several weeks ago – something was happening, in the morning, something that was not normal at all, and yet, it was so embarrassing I couldn't speak of it to anyone. I just knew something was wrong with my body, and that there was no way I could seek help.

And it was weighing me down, even as I sat close to him, next to the brooklet, watching the sky's reflection in the silvery water, having found little comfort in the pipe we shared, unlike Dwalin who had blown smoke rings contentedly as usual, watching them fade in the darkness, one knee dragged up and the other leg stretched comfortably against mine.

"So...", he said quietly, in the end, putting the pipe away and leaning against the huge rock shielding us from the wind.

"Are you going to tell me?

\- Tell you what?", I asked, not looking at him, sitting upright and still at his side.

"What it is that makes you so quiet... Not that you ever were much of a talker, mind... But you outdid yourself tonight. _Hello Dwalin. Thank you Dwalin_. _Tell you what_. Eight words. Goodness Thorin, they say Dwarves are stingy – I call that generosity itself, bless my Soul!

\- Hey..."

I had dragged up my knees, giving him a half-hearted nudge in the ribs, but I did not add anything, I just stared at the brooklet, not knowing what to do. Feeling so helpless.

"What is it, sparrow...?", Dwalin asked, his voice somewhat softer, and I drew my knees even closer to my chest.

"Nothing."

I buried my face in my knees and for a while Dwalin stayed silent, watching the stars in silence, careful not to touch me.

"I think I'm ill.", I whispered, eventually, and he flinched slightly, turning towards me in concern as I recovered.

"What's wrong?", he asked, and I looked at him for a while, biting my lip.

"Something's wrong _down there_...", I whispered, eventually, my voice so low that he had to come closer to hear.

He frowned, looked around – even though it was plain we were alone, I had already assured myself of that before I let out the words – and then he circled my shoulders with his arm.

"Tell me."

It took me a while. It was so embarrassing that I struggled to even frame the words, and I doubt I would have managed to speak had it not been night.

"I'm sleeping. I'm not even dreaming. I don't remember what I dream, I just know it's no nightmare. I wake up, and I'm feeling... both fine and strange. It hurts, also, a bit, down there. It hurts, it feels swollen and I don't know if I want it to stop or to go on, and suddenly... something happens... It's horrible, Dwalin... Suddenly it's... _all out_ and... I can't stop it and... it's in my pants and my trousers and at first I thought it was pus but it isn't... I don't know what it is, Dwalin, I just know I don't want anybody to be aware of that..."

 _I'm so scared_.

I did not voice it but he must have felt it – and Mahal bless him for his kindness that day because I swear, he did not laugh at me. It didn't even enter his mind, because it was not in his nature, and I think he must have pitied me. For my fear, and innocence, because nothing had ever been voiced in my family.

"You didn't tell anyone, Thorin?"

I shook my head, and he sighed.

"How long has it been going on?", he asked, quietly, and I had to think for a while.

"A year or so. It happened once and then it stopped... but now it happens more often and I... don't know what to do...

\- There's nothing to do", Dwalin said softly. "There's nothing to do because it's no disease. It's all perfectly normal. Every boy has it. Every Dwarf, once he stops being a Dwarfling."

I pulled away from him and looked at him, aghast.

"Yeah, sparrow. I have that too, every once in a while. We all do. See... when we begin to grow a beard, and when our bones begin to harden – that's Mahal's way to tell us we are no little boys anymore. That we are growing, and that... well... _down there_ , it's growing as well. And so... things we do not think about as boys, they – they can please us as we grow. And when we are pleased, it swells just like our hearts do when we are happy, and what happens afterwards... That's our body telling us it's so filled with happiness that it cannot stop from showing it.

\- But I... I'm not... I'm not pleased or happy when it happens... I hate it! I don't like it, it's disgusting and embarrassing and... it hurts.

\- Yeah. That's the problem. It always hurts a bit before it's out. Just like... just like very, very strong feelings.

\- Can't we repress it?", I whispered, my face so pale and full of horror that Dwalin had to smile, at last.

He pulled me close, again, and the next words he voiced very gently. Careful not to hurt me or to scare me away, I see it now...

"Yes of course. We are no animals, are we? But... It's difficult, to fight deep happiness, is it not? It's a bit hard, to force yourself to think of very serious, boring stuff, just to cool down, so that you can forget your body... I don't like that idea. I think there's no shame in that. If I'm happy, and am on the verge of acknowledging it, I don't want it to stop. So sometimes... This is a secret, don't tell others, Thorin, promise me that.

\- I won't...", I whispered, still leaning against him, overwhelmed by what I was hearing and actually not knowing how to deal with it.

"Sometimes when I feel it swell and hurt – when I'm feeling that wave rise and know there's nothing I can do about it save enjoy it... I just touch it. Let my fingers feel it, and what comes of it. And... yeah, it's a bit awkward but I don't want to feel any shame because of that. It's just me being happy and me acknowledging it. And it feels... it feels quite good. Even though a lot of people will always tell you the contrary.

\- No one... No one ever told me..."

I was shaking, actually. I had been so scared, and I still was. I also felt a bit sick, and awkward, and disoriented – and Dwalin understood it all, instantly.

"I know. That's why I told you. I don't tell you to do the same, I just tell you how I deal with it. Because I don't want you to be afraid, and to think you are ill or... not normal. It's all... right and natural, Thorin. It happens to us all."

I didn't answer. I just stayed close to him, shivering slightly – a boy caught in a growing man's body, having just begun to discover what it meant.

"I don't like that", I whispered, eventually. "I don't want that."

He brushed my back, shaking his head.

"Don't be silly, sparrow. It's just something our bodies do. No need to feel disgusted or ashamed – and no need to brag about it either. Just respect that as you would... as you are taking care of the rest of your body, so that it stays strong and reliable. That's what ' _adad_ always told me."

There was nothing to answer to that... And when I think about his words – I cannot help but marvelling at the simple, caring way they had to free that truth from every judgement.

I wonder if that's how Dwalin loved... If he was as calm and truthful and caring, when he lay down with someone – I know he did, much more than I ever did, because he always acknowledged his need and refused to be ashamed of it.

I did not manage to shake off the shame. It took me decades – a war, and years and years of struggling to keep alive – until I finally found some peace and replaced it with the kind of quiet acknowledgement that was all I ever managed to summon when it came to loving, or lying down with someone else.

A quiet acknowledgement. As close to peace as I could get...

I remember the morning where it happened again. Where I woke up with a groan, tangled in my blanket, Frerin and Dís still fast asleep. The sun hadn't even risen yet, and I let out another groan, struggling to find out what it was that was bothering and pleasing me at the same time...

I remember breathing fast, my heart racing and my brain unable to focus. I remember the way my hand got down, hesitantly, touching what was going on below for the very first time, and the way my body reacted instantly. Tensing. Swelling even more under my fingers. Bursting in waves of boundless pleasure, washing out the room in my mind, leaving me breathless.

I remember getting up as soon as I could, I remember the way my heart was pounding in my ribcage, the way I still shivered with the aftermath of what just happened as I ran down to the brooklet – and my frantic attempts to clean my hand, so as to keep it to myself. Myself alone.

I remember standing, close to that small house that had witnessed me leaving childhood once and for all, overwhelmed with what had been going on in my body, unable to find a better way to deal with it.

And grinning, in the end – watching the sun get up, leaning against the wall my father had built with so much love, thinking _oh Mahal I hope no one will ever know,_ without being able to stop smiling, yet still shivering.

After that it got better.

We never discussed it again, not in so many words. But ever since that day, I knew. Knew that there was nothing I could ever be ashamed to tell Dwalin. Knew that I could trust him so wholly that I didn't even have to speak about things anymore.

And I know he knew, as he saw the way I was taming that growing body of mine so as to master it fully, and slowly stopped feeling so awkward and helpless. He knew I was learning to take care of it all, and I knew he was doing just the same. And sometimes, as we sparred and would begin to wrestle – as I would pin him down or have him sitting on top of my chest, we would both feel it, that awkward feeling in our lower bodies, making us harden and shiver as they met.

"Enough...", I would whisper, and Dwalin would nod.

"Yeah", he said hoarsely, letting go of me.

"Sorry...", I would add, and he would give me a nudge, grinning at me.

"Remember. Don't be."

I smiled back. And of course we repressed it, every time it happened, because we both knew it had nothing to do with real love. It was just the way our bodies had to tell us we were feeling well and safe together – and also, that we were simply growing.

Both of us. Together.

Together... Together... Dwalin and me... Dwalin telling me there is no shame... No shame... No shame... They are so soothing, these words, so soothing indeed...

No shame...

No shame.


	3. Chapter 3

**The King of Carven Stone : Part VI**

 **Deep Roots Are Not Reached By The Frost (Dunland)**

 **3.**

Time was passing so quickly. One day I was twenty-six, discovering what it meant to leave childhood for good, and suddenly I was almost thirty, almost battle-ready, still working in the forge from dawn to dusk, occasionally leaving it with my father, Dwalin and Balin, either working for Men or joining one of their ragged marketplaces to try and sell our weapons and wares there.

I had grown, was almost as tall as my father now, and I was slowly looking less gaunt, though I still was lean. There was something beginning to look like a beard shadowing my cheeks, and I knew I was strong, not only made of bones but of hard muscles as well.

I knew it because, every second day, I was the one pinning Dwalin down as we sparred. I was not as tall as him, and not as strong – not in the same way. He had the perfect body for a warrior, he was tall, broad-chested and his arms were so strong they could crush a Man to death. But I was swift, and fast – and I had trained hard to force my left hand to be as deft as my right.

It was not Erebor's perfectly thought-out training room, with that wonderful obstacle course that had helped to shape so many warriors, turning them into deadly foes. It was just an open space somewhere in Dunland with my friend facing me, and yet... And yet I could not have dreamt for a better sparring partner.

Pushing me to outrun my last limits. Asking for more than I could give – more than I thought myself able to give, and still managed to find deep inside, every single time I just forced my lungs to breath harder, my body to move faster, my mind to think, think, _think_ in the blink of an eye where I could shift my weight so as to use his own strength against him, and have him lying under me, or freezing as my blade touched his throat.

"Mahal, sparrow...", he would whisper, his face drenched in sweat and his eyes brightening with absolute _happiness_ – because he never resented me for any defeat, simply feeling joy at seeing me succeed.

"Do you surrender?" I would force myself to ask, my lungs burning, my body almost trembling with exhaustion, yet full of quiet joy because we had achieved it together.

"'Course I do", he would grin. "I'll beat you up tomorrow."

And he usually would. I could not defeat him every time, and those moments where I had pushed myself beyond the line were usually followed with aches in my muscles, sinews and bones that made it hard for me to move the day afterwards. For back then I was still a boy in a not yet full-grown body, and had given more than I even knew I possessed.

Yet I did not regret it for the world.

Happy times they were despite of the hardships, these four years we spent in tiny houses of wood – me learning my craft, and my siblings growing up the best they could.

Frerin helping us in the forge with the lighter work, also tending to the five ponies we had been able to purchase so as to help us with carrying wares and tools. Naming them, stroking them, weaving their manes and tails in a way that never failed to remind me of Hergíl, so many years ago.

And Dís eager to follow him, taking care of the chickens that amused her so much, helping the women with the weaving of clothes and blankets, always so glad to escape, slipping in the first trousers she could get and following my brother everywhere.

They had such a strange way of rubbing along. On difficult days, they seemed like two parts of the same Soul – when food became scarce, when it was cold outside and when some among the elderly Dwarrows grew weaker, sickness and death looming around.

They went to see them, together, Frerin carrying whatever food could be spared, and firewood as well, while my sister made sure to ask Óin what else could be done. These days she and Frerin hugged and cuddled, once evening came – two small Dwarflings, exhausted by their strivings, having seen struggles beyond their age, clinging to each other so as not to cry.

Thank Mahal they both talked. Once my father and me had washed soot and sweat away, they would come and tell us what they had done, and how we could help as well, and though their tales were heart-wrenching, I could not helped but feel moved at the way they both had to praise the other.

"... and then Frerin said he would come and carry firewood for Agda every day, be it just to see her smile because it made his heart melt, and she laughed so hard we thought she'd never stop coughing!

\- … and Dís was amazing. She helped Óin to dress Virfi's wound anew, even though it was all bloody and so _disgusting_ that I actually wanted to puke.

\- Because it has to be. He's old. His blood doesn't flow well in his feet, not anymore, so his wound has to be cleaned every day and then you have to wrap shreds of fabric around his foot, tightly, so as to force the veins to pump the blood back up. And Óin also said he should have perfectly fitting shoes, not these old boots he shuffles in."

She was so serious saying these words, her blue eyes shining with knowledge far beyond her years, and my father smiled and took her in his arms.

"I'll make sure of that", he said quietly. "And I'll also chop more firewood for you to bring Agda, Frerin.

\- I can do that", I threw in. "Just remind me of it, _kudz_. I'll do that tomorrow before I go.

\- Good", my brother said, his eyes shiny, and it warmed my heart to know I would at least be able to help a bit.

But other days – when all was quiet, when there was no serious issue to think about, where all seemed to run as smoothly as it could – they argued. Violently. As if Mahal had been bored with too much calm and sweetness, and was urging them to fight viciously, throwing blows and words at each other like two maddened dogs.

"I have the same right to ride them as you do! You are not even _that_ taller!

\- You are so small they could sit upon you and crush you! You are a girl, and you are not even _fifteen_ , that's no age to ride a pony alone and I've no time to sit behind you!

\- And what is there so urgent to be done, anyway?! You have no trade, no apprenticeship, _nothing_ , because you are too small, because nobody needs you in the forge, they just pretend!

\- You shut it! Of course they need me...

\- Yes, for sweeping the floor and carrying light things around – you know what it is you actually do? _Girl stuff_!"

He lost it, that day. Threw himself at her and pinned her down, and she fought back, hammering blows on his chest, biting his hand and tearing at his hair, and Frerin usually was careful not to hurt her too much, restraining his blows because he knew he was taller, and older, and able to harm her seriously.

But that day he truly lost it, in an eye-blink, and it was so unexpected I did not have the time to prevent it. I had heard their shouts as I was coming back from the brooklet where I had washed and had made sure to run up home as fast as I could, thus hearing the end of their fight, but when I entered the kitchen Frerin had grasped her shoulders and made her hit the wall, his eyes full of tears.

"You are a plague. I hate you. I hate you so much there are no words to describe it!"

She hit the wall with the back of her head and was dazed, for a while, and I ran towards them and pulled him away from her, fiercely.

"Have you lost it? Have you truly _lost_ it, Frerin?!

\- Well of course! Just take her side, you always do! The perfect little sister, so cute and sweet, and the perfect elder brother, always there to protect her!

\- How can you say such things?! How can you..."

But I had to turn from him and to rush towards Dís instead, because she let out a gasp and I could see her slide down the wall, slowly, shaking from head to toe and ghastly pale.

"Love, it's all right. It's just a heavy blow, see, there's a bump already forming behind your head because you have a thick skull, all Dwarves do. Don't be afraid, I know it hurts _mamarlûna_ , but you'll be all right, you'll be all right, Dís..."

I had cradled her in my arms, was holding her on my lap, one hand stroking her hair, carefully brushing the bump Frerin's blow had caused, and suddenly I heard her draw a deep breath and let out a terrific sound, half shout and half wail.

" _'AMAAAAAD_!"

The word made me freeze, and I could see Frerin flinch as well, while Dís was sobbing, sobbing so hard her small body was shaking against mine.

"' _Amad_ , I want ' _amad_ , I hate you, I hate you all, I hate you, I want ' _amad_ , I want ' _amad_ , ' _amad_ , ' _amad_!

\- Dís, sweetheart... Love..."

My voice was quivering slightly, I felt so helpless, helpless with so much pain, knowing deep in my heart there was nothing I could do to lessen it.

"I don't want you, I want ' _amad_! She would let me ride ponies, she would never say I'm too small, she would never say I'm not able... and hit me... and... and... and...

\- You hit me too. You bit me, and kicked me. Don't you dare call out for her!"

There was so much burning pain in Frerin's voice that I looked up, and I saw my brother was crying. Silently, tears streaming down his cheeks, eyes glowing, his small fists clenched.

"Don't you dare! Without you, she'd still be...

\- Frerin!"

I cut his words just in time – but Dís understood all the same and suddenly she was kicking, struggling and fighting in my arms, hammering harmless blows on my chest.

"' _Amad_ , I want ' _amad_ , I want ' _amad_ , ' _amad_ , ' _AMAD_!"

The word seemed to stretch, like a terrible wail – and she kept repeating it, gasping for air, her small body shaking in my arms. Ripping us all open.

My brother, losing it once more, screaming at her to be quiet every time she voiced it, unable to stop himself from crying as well.

Me – because I could only hold her, feel her struggle, knowing we had reached it, the moment where I could not replace the one she needed most, not anymore...

And my father.

Standing in the door-frame, his face drained of every colour – I placed my hand on Dís' lips as soon as I spotted him, my fingers trying to hold back the word, trying to keep her grief between us, where it belonged... And she felt it, saw him too, and instantly stopped screaming, freezing in my arms – but it was too late.

He had heard it, and for a while he just stood there. Staring at us – Frerin crying silently against the wall, Dís hiccuping in my lap, desperately trying to hold back her sobs, and me, meeting his gaze for a second, begging him to ignore this, to forget this, not let this shatter his well-deserved peace...

And then Thráin left. Turned silently, and left the room. We all heard the soft click of the door as he shut it behind him – and it was worse than any angry move, worse than every possible word he could have uttered.

He left, and for a while all was silent – at least the shouting and wailing had stopped, and I clung to this thought for some seconds, my hand still pressed against Dís' mouth. And then I met my brother's terrified gaze, speaking volumes about the dread we shared – of that forbidden word, forbidden because it was the key to throw my father off balance.

I remember him, huddled against the wall, his grey eyes wide and still brimming with tears, staring at me, begging me to do something, _anything_ to reassure him, tell him it would all be well, that it was not as serious as it seemed. And somehow – somehow I managed. To let go of Dís' lips, freeing her mouth, brushing her cheek roughly with the back of my hand, setting her down on the ground and getting up slowly.

"Thorin, I'm sorry...", my brother whispered as I moved towards him, dragging him up, wiping his tears with the same determined move as for Dís, and then turning from him.

Walking out of the house, and running in the end, searching for my father – I rounded the house, ran down to the river, reached the nearby houses but did not enter them, because I did not want to explain, did not want anybody to know...

And walking slowly towards the house, once it became clear that my father had gone and that I did not know where to search for him. I entered our room finding my siblings exactly where I had left them – both gazing up at me with wide eyes, full of guilt and fear.

I took the water pitcher and poured them a glass – and if they saw my hand shaking slightly, they didn't say so, they just came closer to the table, taking the glass I handed them without a word.

"You both drink that, and cool down, or I will never speak to you again."

My voice was low, and yet it did not break. Not this time, because it was too serious. And neither of them tried to defend himself, they both drank, and when they finished Dís snivelled, and wiped her nose with her sleeve, staring down at the floor, while Frerin just stood there, listening to her, and searching his pocket for a crumpled handkerchief, in the end.

"There. Blow your nose", he whispered, and she took it, not looking at him, her lip quivering slightly as she obeyed.

"Did you find him?", he asked, softly, and I glared at him – for the answer was obvious, and anger was better than the breath-taking anguish that was threatening to choke me.

"I don't want you to stop speaking...", Dís voiced, and her tone was hoarse, all broken and desperate, both pleading and full of guilt.

"Then in Mahal's name..."

But I couldn't go on. The words just trailed off and I had to close my eyes for some seconds, trying to brace myself once more – because it was useless to shout at them, it would not bring him back, and enough damage had been done already.

They both rushed towards me – not thinking, simply colliding against my side, almost throwing me off balance, and I could feel my sister's arms around my waist and my brother's savage embrace around my chest.

Begging me not to shout, not to hate them for what had happened, and how could I? Of course I placed a hand on Dís' neck, and on my brother's back, of course I held them close – but deep in my heart I was afraid, just as they were. Wanting to slide against the wall and cry, like a child, but a child I was no more and as such, I just stood there, for a seemingly endless moment, trying to find some sense in what was to be done next.

"Right", I whispered, in the end. "I want you to prepare the beds, both of you, and then to wash your faces and get dressed for the night. I'll make dinner.

\- But you never make dinner, Thorin... I always do it with ' _adad_...", my sister voiced, still clinging to me, and I swallowed.

"I'll make dinner", I just repeated, and my siblings soon let go of me, obeying me silently – even helping each other, just like nothing had happened, and yet it had.

I remember breaking eggs against an iron bowl, and then scrambling them, my hand clenched around the bowl, while the other just went on with whipping moves, watching white and yellow melt until foam formed.

I remember placing some butter into the pan, watching it get warm and then pouring the eggs in it, my throat so tight that it hurt to swallow. And I remember cutting cheese and bread in slices that were as straight and even as my heart felt brittle.

"How many plates...?", Dís asked, her voice shaky, and I did not turn as I answered.

"Two. I'll eat with ' _adad_ later."

Unwavering. That was how I sounded, and how I had to be – and dimly I was glad, glad to manage at least to look assured where I only felt doubt, and fear.

"It looks good...", my brother said shyly, and I just placed their share on their plates, watching them eat, helping Dís to cut her eggs and sitting next to her.

It was only when they finished and when the plates were all cleaned and dried – Frerin and Dís having insisted to do so, while I wiped the table, that they both faced me again. Waiting for my next words, knowing I had to say something.

"Listen...", I began, and my voice was very low – so low they both had to come closer. "I don't ask you to stop arguing. I don't even ask you to get on well together. I don't care who began it, and who said what to each other. All I ask... and truly, it is not much... is that you _just – keep – it – between – yourselves – as – long – as –_ 'adad _– is – around_. Can you do that? Is it too much to ask? Because if it is... if it is just say so, and I'll make sure, believe me, I'll make sure to achieve it for you."

There was a burning undertone in my voice they had never witnessed before – I was not threatening them, not really, I was just making sure they understood they had gone too far, and they both looked at the ground, their faces burning in shame.

"Now get into bed. Both of you."

They did not argue. They just obeyed, and I could hear them fussing around with their clothes and their blankets, without a word, while I sat myself outside, leaving the door open so that I could lean against the frame, and watch out for my father while keeping an ear on my siblings.

I sat, and then I watched the night, wishing to be able to guess what was going on in my father's mind. Where he was, what he was doing, if he was just walking, trying to forget my sister's word, or if he was with someone, anyone to keep him from his thoughts...

I wished to be able to be sure he would return, but even after more than five years of his steady presence at my side, I still knew there was no guarantee. Never would be. And that thought made me shiver, causing me to wrap my arms around my chest, trying to fight off the cold that had invaded me.

"Thorin, don't be angry... we are going back to bed, we promise..."

My sister's shy voice startled me and I wheeled around, to find that she was dragging my fur-coat with her, handing it to me, while my brother had lit a candle and brought it to me.

"You can't keep watch in the cold like that..."

Dís' voice was soft, and Frerin helped her to wrap the fur-coat around my shoulders, placing the candle in a lantern he put on the ground beneath me. I had not moved, and when they finished Frerin rubbed his forehead against mine – just once, while Dís pressed a quiet kiss on my cheekbone.

"We are sorry, Thorin. We promise we will never do that again.

\- Good...", I whispered, feeling my eyes begin to burn, and forcing myself to push them back inside. "Get back to bed, it's cold."

And cold it was. It was autumn already, and the wind was icy – I could feel it creep under my tunic, and I curled up in my coat, feeling the soft furs against my cheek, tucking my hands in my sleeves to keep them warm. The lantern was throwing shy rays upon the door-frame, and outside – I could see dry leaves fall slowly, only to be roused again by the chilly breeze.

I remember that watch, indeed. The light fading slowly as night grew darker – and the slow stirring of the leaves, their faint rustling as they fell, once more, covering the ground with copper.

"Frer...?

\- Hmm..?"

Soft whispers in the dark... The night so silent around me that I could hear them, as clearly as if I was in the room with them – one high up in her loft bed, the other huddled in the depths of his own blankets.

"It's not true. What I said. I don't hate you. At all."

Silence stretching between them, and then tiny noises. Bare feet climbing down a ladder.

"Frer...?"

The rustle of sheets, and then a soft whisper, once more.

"Frer, I didn't mean it. I just wanted to ride with you... Are you crying?

\- No..."

The quiver in his voice telling her so clearly that he _was_. Of course he was. The softest among us, the one needing hugs and kisses and love as much as breathing.

"I think you are the best brothers in the world. You and Thorin. And... I don't think you're useless. You are the best with horses, and with stories, and... with braiding my hair. The women always think it's ' _adad_ who has done it, when it's you.

\- Really?"

So strange that these were the words helping to ease his sorrow... I heard him move, guessing from the soft creaking of the bed he was letting her creep under his blanket.

"Yeah. They should have guessed, though, you are doing just the same with the ponies."

A soft giggle, and another rustle of sheets.

"Not the _same_ , Dís. You're no pony.

\- Maybe I am..."

Another giggle, and then silence. Stretching again between them, yet so different from before. Without hurt, or awkwardness.

"I'm sorry too, Dís. I never meant to hurt you.

\- It doesn't hurt. It's just a bump. If it had been on my forehead I could have said I'm a unicorn now, just like the one in Balin's story...

\- The white one?

\- Yeah..."

His fingers in her hair – I could almost feel them. I knew he was stroking her locks, knew it from the soft sigh in her last word, and because I had done it myself, so often, when he was the one huddled against me.

"I'm forgetting her face..."

Sad, earnest words – a wound so deep it could only be spoken under blankets, huddled against each other, Frerin's sentence hovering above them for a minute.

"It's been more than half of my life. More than half of Thorin's, even. I guess it's normal. There is no drawing, no picture, nothing. But it still hurts."

And it did. So much. Even looking at the dark ground outside, even clenching my fists, withdrawing even more in my fur-coat, almost feeling guilty to overhear the words – but then, as it occurs to me only now, Frerin actually _knew_ I was there...

"I'm sorry, Frer. I shouldn't have...

\- No. It's fine. She's your ' _amad_ too."

A quiet kiss on her brow, and my sister's small sigh.

"Frer... One day I asked Dwalin's mum. One day it was just the two of us. I asked her what she looked like, and if she had a picture or something. And she said no. There was no need for it. She said I just had to look at your face, and replace your eyes with Thorin's."

Another rustle of sheets, Dís dragging herself up to face him.

"So you see, it doesn't matter if you forget.

\- She had brown hair, though...", my brother whispered, and I could tell from the hitch in his voice that he was holding back tears.

"Yeah. But still. The face is what matters most."

Silence again. And then my brother's voice, hardly above a whisper:

"Let's sleep now. It's late."

Soft words. A soothing balm on a wound that would never truly heal, and yet... They were silent after that, and their quiet breathing seemed to fill the space between us – my siblings sleeping, finally, and I keeping watch.

I never moved. Not even as I heard his footsteps, and watched him return. I just stayed as I was, seated against the wooden door-frame, the candle in the lantern flickering madly, close to extinguishing itself.

He stopped a few steps away from me, clearly taken aback, and then he bridged the distance between us, pausing at the door. I was still seated, my arms folded against my chest, numb with cold yet determined to look up at him, and my gaze did not waver.

Not even as our eyes locked – and I could see his drawn face, the sadness in his eye, and the grief that lined the corners of his mouth, never truly erased. And yet I did not utter a word – not of comfort, not of apology. I just stared at him, determined to show him.

That I was not crying, not freaking out, not asking him where he had gone or if he would do so again. That I was no boy anymore – and would keep watch, always, guard my siblings and shield them, even if he chose to walk away, because they had only me save him.

That I would never walk away. That I would wait, always – always wait for him to come back.

The candle died with a hissing sound, leaving us both in the dark – and it was better like that, it forced us both to move. I unfolded my arms, and as I did I felt my father's hand on my forearm. Hesitant, yet warm. Asking me if I was ready to let him in.

I let him drag me up, and he closed the door softly behind us. I turned from him as soon as we were inside, heading for the kitchen, placing his share of eggs and bread on a plate and handing it to him, wordlessly.

And then I ate mine. Facing him on the other side of the table, without looking at him – feeling cold and exhausted, now that we were all back inside, finally.

" _Dashat_...", my father whispered, in the end, as we both lay down our forks – and I did not look up, because my eyes were burning, because his soft, deep voice was tearing at my chest, making it hard for me to breathe.

The silence seemed to stretch between us, and then Thráin spoke again.

"There will soon be more of our kin."

This was so unexpected that I looked up, meeting his gaze, frowning slightly, pushing unspoken thoughts aside for a while.

"We received several tidings, these past weeks. From the Orocarni. There seem to be no future in these Mountains for our people – they say they are not part of them, and are planning to join us. Several families."

I stared at him, wordlessly, thinking of the Council where I had met them, the Blacklocks and the Stonefeet, and known they had no compassion, no love for the once so mighty Longbeards...

And I thought I had been right to hate them.

"I... had to see your grandfather tonight, so as to determine how to answer. There are not many riches here. We already struggle. But these are our people.

\- How many?", I asked, in the end, and my voice was steadier than I felt.

"Probably a hundred. They come from different settlements. Twenty... thirty families, maybe. Not only warriors. There will be craftsmen. Women. Children."

He said the last words softly, his gaze shifting to Frerin, and Dís – their frames mere shadows in the dark room. And I knew then that he must have pleaded with Thrór to let them all come. Be it only to have his children grow up among their kin – to have a sliver of the warmth and life Erebor had harboured as well as gold and gems.

"When will they come?", I asked, and my father smiled softly, his hand searching for mine, his warm palm closing upon my unmoving fingers.

"I knew you would understand...", he simply said. "I knew you would ask exactly that."

I bit my lip, feeling the stinging in my eyes return. This was bordering on madness. There was not enough work, not enough food, and the lands were hostile save for our small settlement. It was autumn, winter was close and try as I might, I could not conceive how the work in the forges and the little other trades we had managed to establish with the Dunlandings could ever suffice.

And yet...

And yet I could not bring myself to feel it was not right. These were our people. We had walked away from Fire, crossed ice and snow together. We had shared hunger, and cold, sickness and blood – and I would rather have them all around, and strive even harder, than to know they were despised and struggling elsewhere.

"Spring", Thráin voiced softly. "They should not travel during winter. It should give us some time...

\- Time for what?", I asked, my hand moving slightly under my father's who squeezed it gently, rubbing my knuckles with his thumb.

"To be a bit more ready. You already are, _dashat_... You do not need me in the forge, not anymore. Time and experience have to be your teachers now.

\- Time for what?"

My voice was toneless, and I repeated the words like a prayer, already dreading the blow.

"It is time for me to go. For several months, so that we can manage a bit more easily – get some wealth we cannot achieve with me staying here. There are enough warriors. I can take five or six with me, and offer our services to merchants, to escort them through Dunland, towards Rohan or Gondor. They pay. There will be enough food for all.

\- ' _Adad_..."

My throat was tight, and for a while I struggled to speak.

"Will you take Balin with you?", I whispered, in the end – and no, I did not ask him to stay, did not ask him why he could not send other warriors, why he could not stay with us and keep us safe and stay with me in the forge forever.

I was not a boy, not anymore.

"Aye, _dashat_. I will take Balin", my father said softly – and I withdrew my hand, slowly.

Clenched my fists and stared down at the table, its rough, unpolished wood we still made sure to keep smooth and clean. For a few heartbeats, thinking I should be glad. Feel relieved. Because with Balin with him, I could hope, and be reasonably sure he would keep whole, and focused.

"Good", I whispered, forcing myself to open my palms and look at him.

And it did not matter my voice quivered. It did not matter my father shook his head, pushing back his chair, embracing me and leading me to his room, because I managed to repeat it. As it was expected of me.

"Good. Very good."

We were sitting on the edge of the bed, he was holding me tightly, one hand against my neck and the other around my waist, and his lips were pressing quiet kisses against my hair, my brow, my skin, echoing my words, every single time.

"That's good."

I do not know when I stopped saying it, not really. I just know he never stopped holding me, never stopped kissing me and had me close to his chest the whole time, running soothing fingers through my hair.

Until I found us both stretched on his narrow bed – and he had removed my boots and wrapped me in his blanket, somehow... I was huddled against him, my face resting against his chest and I could feel his warmth trough his tunic because I was clinging to the fabric, my fists clenched so hard my skin seemed white.

His hand was resting against my back, so warm. So warm, and when I shifted slightly I felt the softness of his beard as well – his beard in which my hair was tangled, exactly like years and years ago, when I had been just a boy.

"It is not fine, _dashat_."

His deep voice gave me enough strength to unlock my grip, slowly, and he stroked my back, his move both soothing and determined.

"It is not what I want. I want to hold you like this forever. I want you to know I will always be there. That I will always try to keep you from harm. That you can trust me to come back. Always. Because there is no life for me where you are not – you, your brother and your sister.

\- I didn't mean to...", I whispered, but my father shushed me, his thumb stroking my lips.

"Neither did I", he answered. "I am so sorry to ask this of you. But I know you are ready. I know I can trust you. I know my Raven-haired prince has grown enough to stand tall on his own, and let me rely upon him. I am so, so proud of you, _dashat_.

\- I'm proud of you too...", I said, my voice broken – and what a child I was, actually, what a childish answer it was to such loving words, and yet I could not think of any better...

"I promise I will manage, ' _adad_. I promise it will... it will be good."

He smiled at me, then, and drew me closer.

"Come here, my boy", he said softly. "Come here. Of course it will be good. Of course it will be. My boy. My sweet, wonderful boy..."

And that night I let him. Let him hold me close, allowed myself to stay huddled against my father despite the fact that I was almost as tall as him, my face pressed in his chest and his fingers in my hair.

I fell asleep against him, and he never pushed me away. Held me the whole night, like a Dwarfling, careful not to wake me once his bed became even more crowded. He shifted, resting my head against his chest and holding Frerin close with his other hand, allowing Dís to rest against one of his thighs, making sure we all stayed warm.

"Perhaps I should have made it broader...", he smiled once dawn found us all crowded and cramped in his narrow bed.

I frowned, felt myself blush and made a move to get out, but my father held me back, his arm still around my shoulders.

"No...", Frerin let out, still half-asleep. "It would not be the same... I like it when we are all tangled. I like to be squeezed against you, ' _adad_...

\- You kick...", Dís mumbled accusingly, and my father smiled, bending to pull her up and let her rest against his chest, lifting my arm to make it circle her tiny back.

"No broad bed, then...", he said softly. "Squeezed and tangled."

My siblings giggled and I smiled, too sleepy to feel awkward and simply glad to have them all against me. I would not think of what was to come, not now... I just wanted to close my eyes and listen to that nonsense, because soon that bed would be empty, my father gone for months with nothing more than a Raven to tell us how they all fared, every ten days...

"Oh ' _adad_ , that's a good watchword! _Squeezed and tangled_. I want that on my shield when I'll be big. They will all think I crush them and make knots with their very limbs, and no one will know it's actually _us_..."

His eyes were shining and my father smiled, but I mumbled:

"They'll think you are nuts, _kudzaduz_. That's what they'll think."

Frerin just huffed, making himself more comfortable.

"Not with you having written ' _scowl don't smile_ ' all over yourself... I don't care for what they think. Orcs don't think, they just snarl anyway..."

And if there was the slightest shake in his voice, I did not comment upon it. I just reached over Dís' back to entwine my arm with his – because I knew he had his own secret fears though he barely ever voiced them, and because I loved him.

I loved them all, squeezed against and tangled with me – and I just closed my eyes, for a few moments where I could still be just a boy, before I would have to pretend I was ready.

I did not cry the day they left, and neither did my siblings. I just stood as tall as I could in the icy wind and watched them go – my father, Balin, Dagur and four more warriors that were to accompany him, Thráin's kiss still lingering on my skin.

Dís was in Dwalin's arms – had climbed there herself, settling on his hip, determined to be tall as well, but Frerin had drawn an arm around my waist and was leaning against my shoulder, his golden locks spread on my fur-coat.

"I wish he could have stayed for Durin's day...", my brother said, his voice slightly trembling, and I placed a hand upon his locks.

"It would have been too late... The merchants will want to cross the Mountains before winter.

\- And how will we know where they are?", Frerin whispered, and I brushed his hair, softly.

"You heard ' _adad_. He said he has asked for a Raven to meet him on the road.

\- Roäc?", my brother asked, his grey eyes shining, and I shook my head.

"No. Not Roäc. I do not think he can leave his people like that. They have a new life now. In the west, very far away...

\- But he told you he would always come should you need him. He promised when he left, Thorin, don't you remember?"

Of course I did. Of course I remembered – these words had kept my eyes clear of tears when Roäc had left us, already years ago. He had promised to accompany us until we reached Dunland, and Dunland we had reached. His promise was fulfilled, and to feel lost, and robbed of every rock I could think of was no reason to make him leave home, and shelter – and ask him to abandon his duties. I had to face mine alone.

"I do. He will send one of the Ravens, _kudz_ , you will see."

My brother sighed, well-knowing that I had eluded the question, and that is when I heard Dwalin's gasp, his cough as he got it down the wrong way, and then stuttered:

"Come again, _sarnûna_...?"

My sister gazed at him, puzzled, and then her clear, childish voice rose.

"Thorin said he wants you to sleep with him. At our place. While Balin is away. He said it would be a waste of firewood, to have you in your house and us in ours, that you'd be cold alone and on your own. So when I asked him if you could not share his bed, he said yes.

\- Dís, I didn't...

\- Oh Mahal!", Dwalin let out, and he had to put my sister down and sit himself on the icy ground, because he was shaking with silent laughter.

"So that's your plan, eh...?", he hiccuped, and I glared at him, and at Dís who was still at a loss to understand what she had gotten wrong.

" _No_! I never _said that_! That's what _she_ wants! You know how Dís is, once she has something in her mind, she won't budge! I didn't say you could _share my bed_ or... or _sleep with me_ or anything like that!

\- But you said you would ask him...", Dís pleaded, and her eyes were bright and full of hurt. "You said that if he wanted, he could sleep in your bed and you in _'adad'_ s so that we could all stay together at night...

\- Yeah...", Frerin supplied, breaking away from me, and I felt utterly betrayed, suddenly – because it made me look like a fool and a Dwarfling.

"Didn't", I let out, and then I just turned, walking away as quickly as I could, entering our house so as to grab my tools and apron, and heading for the forge, cheeks and eyes burning – furious with my siblings, and most of all with myself.

That day I did not even speak, I think, save some words with Nár who was watching over us – not truly helping us, but supervising us for the first weeks we would have to learn how to manage without Balin and my father.

It went surprisingly well. There was more space, and I could move more easily, I soon lost myself in work and found it calmed me down. I loved to shape iron, always have. It required strength, but also concentration – it kept my mind focused and the tools I shaped were there to prove it, plain as they were.

I could do it. I was strong enough, I had learnt my trade. Had we been in Erebor, I would have needed years and years of practice, but we were not. There was no silver to carve, no delicate piece of work to frame, these were nails, tools, and heavy weapons – and it was what I needed, that day.

The sun was low when I wiped my brow, at last, and as I laid down my hammer I found Dwalin already sweeping the forge, quietly. Nár had already left, long ago – he was getting older and there was no need to keep him there endlessly, and so we were alone.

The broom made a soft, regular noise and I suddenly realised I was tired. There was no fire left in me, I could only watch Dwalin sweep the dust, while the embers guttered in the fireplace.

"She got it wrong", I whispered, in the end, and Dwalin did not stop in his task, the broom brushing the floor steadily.

"She made it sound wrong, and I don't want you to think...

\- Think what?", Dwalin said, his rough voice strangely soft as he placed the broom into its corner at last.

"That you... that I... Oh, curse it, Dwalin, she made it sound like I was _in love_ with you and I'm not, you know that, don't you?

\- Yeah. Even though you kissed me.

\- It was an _oath_ , Dwalin! I _had to_!

\- Yeah. I remember."

He was still quiet, and strange, and suddenly I felt dread come all over me. I was on the verge of speaking – or leave him there, I'm still not sure, when I heard it. That quiet chuckle, soon turning into bellowing laughter. He was leaning against the broom, struggling to keep upright, and he was laughing.

"Oh sparrow... That face of yours! Oh Mahal, you might not be in love with me, but _goodness_... That _face_... I really made you doubt, didn't I...?

\- You are... you are..."

But I couldn't even speak. I was too angry, too hurt, too overwhelmed and it suddenly made me want to cry, it made me want to lash out and throw things at him but I could only stand there, and Dwalin noticed. Forced his laughter to ebb, and slid down the wall, slowly, gazing up at me with that brown, kind gaze that always helped to unravel whatever knot I had inside.

"Oh Thorin, does it have to be so tragic? Can't you just have it simple, this time? If you want me to stay with you, ask. If you don't, there's no problem. I'm used to sleeping in our house, even without Balin. I don't mind. I just..."

And here his voice trailed off. He was still looking at me, but had drawn his knees up and was resting his arm against them – and it made him look younger, more vulnerable than I had ever seen him. It made anger leave my body, almost despite myself, and cross the forge slowly to sit down next to him. Not touching him, but waiting for him to go on.

And eventually, once the silence had stretched so much that it would have been awkward not to answer, I whispered:

"You think it's childish. That I'm childish.

\- No."

That is all he said, his brown eyes flaring up for a moment, as they gazed up at me defiantly.

"Then Dwalin...", I said, very softly – and it was not easy, I was not used to asking, I did not like to voice such things aloud...

"Come and live with us. Until they return. I don't want you to be cold."

I had spoken quietly, still seated at his side – earnest words trying to hide the wish behind an order, and it made Dwalin smile.

"Aye, _uzbadê_. I'll come.

\- Don't call me like that...", I whispered, nudging him in the ribs, but when he entwined his arm with mine I let him drag me up.

"Thank you", he said, quietly, once he was facing me, and I frowned.

"For what?

\- Remembering to keep me warm", he simply answered, and then he left the forge, carrying his tools away, striding determinedly towards his home to gather the few belongings he had.

He slept in my bed, that winter. Night after night – his presence having a soothing effect upon my siblings, who hardly argued anymore, cuddling against him in the evening and often falling asleep right there.

And I moved to my father's room. Stretched myself on his bed, trying to find his scent in the sheets the first days, and falling asleep gazing at the soft curves the moon was drawing on the wall, its rays falling upon my mother's harp.

Thinking I missed them both, more than words could tell – but that I would be strong, and keep these wounds hidden, because I had promised my father I would manage.

I was no boy anymore. I was almost thirty, almost battle-ready, and I had siblings and a friend to take care of, as well as my people. And I would manage. Carry us all through the winter, until my father and Balin returned.

And so I buried my face in his sheets, stared at the soft curves on the walls, and fell asleep in my father's bed, night after night, waiting for the winter and yearning for spring, my fingers curled around one of his old working shirts.


	4. Chapter 4

**The King of Carven Stone : Part VI**

 **Deep Roots Are Not Reached By The Frost (Dunland)**

 **4.**

I remember the moon on Durin's Day that year.

It looked exactly like the one we saw, lightening the rocks, shining upon the keyhole. It was so bright. It shone so purely, because the sky was freed of every cloud. It looked so perfect, autumn's last jewel before it bowed to the winter.

"Do you think someone is living up there? There are spots on it. There might be Mountains, and even Dwarves...

\- Hold still, _mamarlûna_."

I had helped Dís into her best attires and was fastening the laces of her collar and sleeves. She had pouted at first, thinking very little of robes and dresses, but had remained silent after I had reminded her that they did not prevent anyone from acting strong, and that it mattered to our grandfather.

"Thorin, I don't want that gown...

\- Of course you do. It's biting cold outside. You don't want to sneeze and shiver while we all dance and eat, do you?

\- I don't care. I want ' _adad_. There's no Durin's Day without ' _adad_."

She was staring at the ground, biting her lip, and I closed my eyes briefly. It had been twenty days, and we had still no news. No Raven. No tidings, not even a word. And yet I had to pretend it did not worry me.

"Come on, Dís. Don't you remember? Agda has promised to make some honey-cakes. And there will be dances too. You will dance. And Thorin and me. Just like every year. And if you are lucky, you might even get a dance with Dwalin..."

Frerin's voice was cheerful as he wheeled her around, and Dís' eyes brightened. I had finished to lace her clothes and she let him drag her towards the bed, sitting between his spread legs while he began to braid her hair.

"Don't sulk, Distle", he whispered, kissing her behind the ear. "Otherwise the Moon-dwarf will be very, very sad.

\- There's no Moon-dwarf. You are making this up.

\- Of course there is. He's the one shaping the moon. He cuts her all tiny when she's tired, draping her in a big dark gown, just like yours. And when she's rested he uncovers her and polishes her until she's as big and bright as today...

\- Thorin, is it true?"

I was already dressed, my braids tight and stern, having pulled on my light chain-mail, and my best jerkin. The one from Erebor had become too small, and this one was almost new – the women had used one of my fathers', had polished the leather anew and had altered it for me, taking pains to embroider the edges with tiny silver threads.

I tied my belt and slid my sword into its scabbard, and then I fastened my axe on my back. Dís was looking at me, and she seemed so small, seated there, her shiny eyes gazing up at me with absolute trust and love.

"And what do you think, _mamarlûna_?", I asked, and she frowned, knitting her tiny brow while my brother's nimble fingers wove one braid after the other.

"If it's true, then he's very lonely and cold up there, and I'm sorry for him", she voiced, decidedly, and Frerin laughed.

I smiled, and then I left them, crossing the settlement to find my grandfather while checking out the preparations. Huge piles of logs were laid out, promising roaring fires at least for one night, and benches had been disposed around the dais where my grandfather would hold his customary speech, leaving room for music and dances afterwards.

It was not much, but it promised a cheerful night, and I smiled at the guards I met, rounding the settlement to make sure our defences stood.

"We will bring you your share of food", I promised them, laying a hand on their forearm. "You won't be forgotten.

\- We had no fear of that, _uzbad-dashatê_ ", they answered, one after the other.

And the last one who was also the oldest added :

"As long as a bit of your music reaches us...

\- I will make sure of that", I said quietly. "I will come and play for you, if you wish.

\- No, lad. Stay warm. Stay safe. Your notes will find us, do not fret."

I looked at him and he brushed my arm, once.

"And so will tidings. Have faith. Your ' _adad_... He has lived through worse. I'm sure he leads them all to safety and wealth.

\- Aye", I whispered, somehow finding the strength to tighten my shoulders and nod, firmly. "Thank you. Durin bless you.

\- And you, _uzbad-dashatê_. And you."

His dark eyes found my face and I saw the tiny wrinkles time had woven around them, speaking of warmth and care even beneath an iron helmet. And then I turned, heading for my grandfather's house.

I was going there every day, now that my father had gone. Every morning, before I headed for the forge, finding him already dressed up, the leather-bound books in which we kept records and sums spread out before him, his tea long forgotten and cold.

I would place some logs close to the fire-place and stir the embers, determined to have him warm, and then I would take his cup, emptying it and brewing fresh tea for him and for Nár. I would pour it into tin-cups, making sure not to fill them up completely – the utmost silent insult in Dwarven customs, as it basically meant drink it and be gone...

It also allowed them to add a few drops of that fiery beverage Nár brewed, and that was pleasing my grandfather so much. They would often sit there, together – two old, hardened warriors who had almost nothing left, save books telling them how much they had lost, and drops of fire reminding them of even rougher days...

"Who's chopping that wood?", Thrór would ask briskly, every now and then, and my reply never varied.

"I do, grandfather.

\- Shouldn't you be learning your trade?

\- I try, grandfather.

\- Trying is good. Achieving it is better", he would snort, but sometimes he would add, in a softer voice:

"And what will you carve today, son?"

And I wished I could tell him I would make the most perfectly balanced sword the world had ever seen. That I would carve silver-shields, bearing his crest so that his name could spread, mighty and wealthy once more. That bracelets, rings and necklaces were springing from my forge, for everyone to see and to desire wildly.

But I was no liar, and that dream had broken long ago.

And so I always answered truthfully:

"Nails, grandfather. Ploughs. Arrow-heads. A knife. Some shoes for the ponies."

He would fall silent then, and his gaze would cloud. And then his broad hand would find my head and linger there, for a moment, always puzzled to find out I had grown so much.

"Go then, lad. Go, my boy."

That day, however, I had the hope that I would bring him some pleasure. I had dressed in my finest clothes, had washed my hair and braided it with care. I bore my rings as well and had polished them so that they shone, their tarnished silver brought back to life once more. I had no proper beard yet, just whiskers and stubbles that darkened my cheeks, but I had done my best to appear as a Prince so that he could be proud.

I found him dressed up, his beads fastened as usual in his grey beard, and his clothes neat and proper. There was no day Thrór would dress casually, he would always make sure to wear clothes both practical and displaying his kingship, even though he was not one to dwell much on dresses and attires anymore. And as such, even on Durin's Day, I found him standing in front of the fireplace much as he always was.

I bowed to Nár and he smiled at me, and then I stepped up to my grandfather, noticing that, for the very first time, a fire was already burning below the mantelpiece.

Thrór was staring at the flames, and he did not look up as I approached him. He simply said:

"I could use a good pipe with you, Thráin."

I frowned, thinking he must have spoken too fast, but he turned towards me, casting a scowl upon me.

"Well, son? Is that how I raised you, to keep your father and King waiting?

\- Grandfather, it's me...", I said softly, feeling my heart begin to throb wildly in my ribcage. "Thorin.

\- Oh..."

He blinked, twice, and my throat tightened, because for a few seconds I saw a look of confusion and anguish cross his face, making him look more helpless than I had ever seen him.

"Oh. Thorin. Of course. It's the light. It makes you look so tall.

\- I have grown a bit, grandfather. Maybe one day I will reach your height...

\- Now, now..."

And he smiled, actually, as I stepped up to him and took his hand, but his fingers were cold in mine and I knew then.

That it was not the light.

"Do you want your pipe, grandfather?", I asked, still brushing his hand. "Shall I fetch it for you? There is time left before the feast...

\- No. Leave it. Pour me a cup instead, and take one for you as well."

He pushed me away, as so often, and I try to hide my worry while I obeyed him, watching him turn to the fireplace again. My eyes found Nár's, and my fingers moved, discreetly, as I poured the tea for them.

 _\- What is it, Nár? He seems... odd._

 _\- Just a bit distraught. Has been, for a few days._

 _\- Distraught?_

I put the tin-cups on a plate and Nár swiftly added some drops of fire-water for him and my grandfather, after I had shaken my head wordlessly, covering my own cup with my palm. He smiled at that, but his green eyes were thoughtful, and his wrinkled face somewhat sad.

 _\- He misses him, lad._

 _-_ 'Adad _? Is that why he...?_

 _\- He longs for news. That's all. And they will come soon. Do not fret._

These words kept returning, everybody was telling me not to worry, and yet I could not fight back the silent dread clinging to my chest. It had been almost three weeks, and my father had promised he would send a Raven every ten days. Something had happened. Something had happened to ' _adad_ , to Balin, to Dagur and the other Dwarves – and yet I could not let this thought show in my gaze or on my face.

And so I drank my tea, smiled at my grandfather and tried to bring my share to the conversation – but I was so lost in my thoughts that I almost missed his request.

"I wish you to speak tonight, Thorin. Are you listening, boy?

\- I...

\- I said I wish you to speak tonight. It is time you learn how to address your people. How to let your words reach them, so that they remain faithful.

\- Grandfather, I...

\- Well?!"

His light-blue eyes flared up and I could see irritation begin to darken his face. I straightened my back and squared my shoulders.

"It is just... Will you speak to them first? I... I am sure you already know what you want to say...

\- Of course I know. It's the same thing every year. Thank them, thank the Maker, explain what is to be done and express your faith in getting it done swiftly.

\- Thrór, you are shocking the lad..."

Nár was smiling, and gently put a hand upon his forearm – and my grandfather shrugged, without being able to suppress a smirk.

"So what? They just want to eat and dance. And to know we are here to drive them and get things done – their best excuse to complain and grumble, which is what they do best. No way to get it wrong. No way."

And he emptied his cup, laying it back against the plate with a thud, rolling his eyes when he saw me staring at him.

"Mahal, lad. Of course I'll speak first. Add a few words, will you? That's all I ask. Can't do worse than your father, can you? Not even able to send a Raven, that one...

\- Aye, grandfather", I whispered, and I soon laid down my own cup and got up, bowing and leaving the house.

But my eyes were burning and all the feelings I was so carefully trying to repress were choking me – I did not trust my voice, did not trust my face, and I broke into a jog, running down the slope until I reached the brooklet, and the broad stone where I used to sit with Dwalin, when we wanted to be alone.

And there I crouched, leaning my back against the rock and pressing my fists against my eyes.

"Shit", I voiced. "Shit. Bloody – accursed – freaking – tremendous – _shit_."

I exhaled, shakily, my elbows digging into my thighs, my palms pressed so tight against my eyes dazzling spots were beginning to appear, and then I forced myself to breathe evenly. In and out. Twenty times in a row, one for each day without news – enough to calm myself down.

The brooklet drew itself in fragments, blotted out by dark spots, once I opened my eyes and got up, still leaning against the rock. I waited for my vision to focus, looking at the water who was swelled by autumn's rain, dragging dead leaves along.

"Shit", I whispered, one last time.

And then I turned, to face Durin's Eve at last.

I entered our house to find Dís and Dwalin fully dressed, and I smiled at him, because he looked exactly as he should, a warrior's son, his grey woollen tunic, dark leather-jerkin and his chain-mail fitting his body like a second skin. His two axes were fastened on his back, and he had tied some of his thick brown hair back with a hair-clasp, showing more of his face – where a beard had clearly begun to grow.

He smiled back, and resumed his game with Dís, showing her magic tricks involving a woollen thread, two of her fingers and one of his. She was looking at him in mute adoration, seated on the bench, so small that her feet did not reach the ground, and I resisted the urge to bend down and kiss her neck, not wanting to disturb them.

Instead, I knocked at my father's room-door, where my brother was getting dressed.

"Frerin?

\- Come in... And don't bother knocking, Thorin, you're my _brother_!"

I shook my head and entered – expecting a mess of clothes discarded in every corner of the room, the main heap lying on my bed. But instead...

"Oh."

Frerin was fastening his axe on his back, and his tiny fingers were struggling with the buckle – he was frowning, a look of impatience in his grey eyes that reassured me my brother was still there somehow, because the Dwarfling I was facing had little to do with his ordinary self.

He only wore weapons and chain-mail when he was training, discarding them in ordinary life, walking around in tunic and jerkin, his braids the only adornment he cared about – and even then, his hair being somewhat unruly, they would get loose several times a-day. Until Frerin was fed up with braiding them again and would end up with his hair-clasps askew, his locks curling around his face, often sweaty and covered in dust, because he did not shirk duty and work and tried his best.

I never scolded him for that, I just made sure to bring him warm water, and every once in a while, I was the one washing his hair. We shared turns, Dwalin, Dís and me – and Frerin loved it. We almost suspected him of dirtying his hair on purpose, but I would not have exchanged these moments where I had him sitting before me, his eyes closed in delight as I poured water on his hair and dug my fingers into his skull. Somehow it made me feel I was finally able to set things right – that I could wash dirt and dust away and have Frerin look as the bright, carefree Prince he should have always been able to remain.

But that day I faced him – that day I saw him dressed as the true Prince he was, and always had been, I could only look. At that wonderful boy who had pulled on weapons and chain-mail, who had braided his hair with such care that his clear, smart features stood out even as he frowned – my little brother who was growing just as I was...

"Give me a hand, will you, Thorin?"

He was still fumbling with the buckle and I stepped behind him, quietly strapping his axe on his back – and it was all I could do not to pull him against my chest and squeeze as hard as I could.

"I would have worn my bow, but I don't want to give grandfather the satisfaction."

He huffed and turned towards me as I winced.

"So, how is he? Growling about preparations? Rehearsing his speech? Did he give you a break with ' _adad_ and the forge today?

\- Hmm..."

I just groaned, and Frerin sighed.

"Right, he didn't. Mahal, Thorin, he's such a _bore_!"

I winced again and my brother's gaze softened.

"All right, all right. Sometimes I wonder what he has done to deserve you.

\- Don't", I mumbled. "He's our grandfather. He's... It's hard for him, Frerin.

\- Aye. Just for him, of course."

He had spoken drily, straightening his tunic, and I picked up the shirt he had pulled off, starting to fold it, quietly... until Frerin snatched it from my hands.

"Hey, that's mine! I'll do it, don't you dare... what is it, anyway? You're all quiet and stern. It's Durin's Day, remember?

\- He wants me to speak."

I sat down on the bed as I spoke, and my brother arched his eyebrows. And then he sat down next to me, circling my waist, squeezing his arm between my axe and my back.

"Well, that's good, Thorin...", he said, quietly. "I would love to hear you add a few words. I think it would please them. To hear what you have to say. It's important. They need to bond with you – to know you are a full support to grandfather, but that you are there as well. It reassures them, to have you there, Thorin. And I think grandfather is aware of that too. That's why he asked you to speak."

I looked at him in surprise, and Frerin rubbed my stomach with his fist, smiling like a boy when he tried to dig his way through my clenched muscles.

"Soon they'll turn to iron", he grinned, and then he grew thoughtful.

"Do you think one day I'll look just like that? There are no muscles in _my_ belly. It's all soft. I try, though, Thorin.

\- I know, _kudz_. But you don't need that.

\- 'Course I do! I'm going to be just like you. Just like you and ' _adad_. Strong and stunning and unwavering and absolutely ama-a-a-a-a-azing!"

He had twisted the word, breaking away from me and made a few dancing steps through the room, opening the door and yelling at Dwalin and Dís:

"We're off, come on!

\- About time", Dwalin muttered, rolling his eyes in mock exasperation, and soon we were heading for the dais, joining the processions of Dwarves and Dwarrowdam who had all come to gather there.

I remember the moon, that night. It was bright, and had risen fully, casting enough light upon the days to see dozens of silhouettes, massing themselves around the dais, waiting for my grandfather to speak.

Dwalin stood among them, but my siblings and me climbed upon the dais to join my grandfather. I heaped Dís up, took my brother's hand and helped him up as well, and then I got up myself, standing at my grandfather's side, at the place my father used to be every year – listening quietly, his face intent and his gaze fixed upon the Dwarrows before him.

Thráin never held a speech. He just listened, and when my grandfather finished he bowed his head, quietly, only adding his own wishes to his people, a soft, heartfelt sentence that somehow never missed its aim, quiet and modest as it was.

He had no wish to outshine his father. He simply was there, and back then it meant the world to me, because I knew it could have been so much worse. He could have stayed mad, shut in his own world – he could have been lost in anger and hurt but he was there, just like in Erebor, at his father's side, and though he never seemed to take any decision, leaving the ruling to Thrór, I knew it was not so.

He was the one who had made us all settle down. He was the one who had thought of the houses, who was helping my grandfather with the records, who was quietly watching over the elderly, making sure no one was left alone to struggle. He was the one who had decided to leave, to offer his services to Men so that he could afford to take more Dwarves in, and now he was away.

He was away, and I had no news. He could be injured, lost – they could all be lost, and I had to be there, standing on that dais, listening to my grandfather who was speaking steadfastly about success, about hard and hostile ground that had never stopped any Dwarf from thriving, about work that had been done and would have to be done, and I wondered...

I wondered if he doubted. If somewhere, in his hard, strong heart, he was afraid too – if it unsettled him to know his son so far away, or if it was simply old age that made him stick to these thoughts of hard work, of having to fight. If it was old age that had caused him to mistake me for my father – or something worse, a foreshadowing, or even that obscure desire to replace him with me he had voiced several times, making my heart sink...

Thoughts kept raging in my head, and yet I stood silent and grave, my face betraying nothing. And when he finished we all bowed, us of course, and the rest of the Dwarves, and a quiet rumble went to the crowd – approbation, probably, but a resigned one.

My grandfather turned towards me, and laid a hand upon my shoulder, nudging me forwards. And I looked at these tired, battered faces – these faces telling me clearly they knew the course to take, that they had no choice anyway, and that they had known from the very beginning what their King would say to them. That it was hard, but that they had abandoned the very idea of complaining long ago, and that they were simply weary, in want of one precious evening where they could try to forget exile and strives.

I looked at them – and I felt my chest tighten. I was not my father. I did not have it in me to wish them a wonderful Durin's Day, I did not have his quiet strength that always managed to convey just how much he was there.

I just had them. These battered faces, these tired looks who had brightened up, somehow, who were looking up at me eagerly, and suddenly I heard myself speak.

"May the moon shine brightly upon your evening – as brightly as it shines upon ours, because I see you all gathered there around us and know it is a rare blessing."

My voice was slightly trembling, but it was not breaking – and I felt as if it was another one speaking, reaching out from the very depth of my chest to find words I would never have dreamt of harbouring.

Because I had them. I had them, and I cared for them – cared for them so deeply that I silenced my awkwardness, my shyness and my fear for a moment, only yearning to give them everything I could, and even more.

"And today, today and _every day_ , my siblings and me want you to know that we... that we are very much aware. Of what it means, that you are there, at our side, here in Dunland. Of every day you work, and strive, so that we can all hope that tomorrow will be brighter. Of every night where... where there is a light burning, in each house, showing we are still there. And... I want you to know that... that we are there for you as well. And always will be."

I had spoken as clearly as I could, my gaze never wavering from the silhouettes of the Dwarrows I could see standing before me, crowded close to the dais. I was glad for the darkness, because it shadowed my face – but suddenly the moment broke: my cheeks were glowing, and I felt awkward, too awkward to become aware of something else than my shaking hands and the race of my heartbeats.

And so I failed to notice the silence, at first. It took me some seconds – but then it hit me with all its fullness. It was absolutely silent, so silent that the only sound was the soft cracking of the fire around us. And then they moved. The old Dwarrows in the first rank – and the others.

I saw them bend, kneeling down in a slow, yet determined wave – their gaze upright, so bright in the darkness. And their voices rose just like a wave as well, a whispered word that crossed the rank of Dwarrows, passed on from lip to lip until tears found my eyes at last – because I was afraid, and young, because I missed my father, because I could not take it all and yet would, for there was so much love, so much love and faith they all gave so freely...

" _Uzbad-dashatê... Uzbad-dashatê... Uzbad-dashatê..._ "

My fists were clenched and I drew a deep breath, once the last murmur had faded – and then I said, loud and clear, and with as much warmth I could muster, just like Thráin had always done it:

"A wonderful Durin's Day to you all."

Cheers rose, I smiled – and my grandfather put a hand on my forearm, claiming the feast begun. And there, in the twilight, shielded by his massive frame – there I wiped my eyes, determined not to let them spill. Roughly, fiercely, with the inner part of my wrists, right before I jumped down the dais behind my siblings to find Dwalin at last.

"Hey, you...", he whispered, smiling at me and pulling me in one of his bear-like hugs. "Quite the talker tonight, are you...?

\- Cut it, Dwalin", I muttered, feeling some tension leave my body at last as I leaned against him, finally able to hide my face somewhere. "I was terrible.

\- Aye. You were. Thank Mahal it was short", he teased me, and I groaned.

And then Dís came to squeeze her tiny body between Dwalin's and mine and I had to laugh, breaking away from him.

"Thorin, why did they all kneel?", she whispered, once she had made sure to be hugged, and I stayed silent, not knowing how to answer.

"We knelt because we trust you", Dwalin voiced, eventually – and there was no wavering in his voice, just warmth, and love, and strength. "Because we know what Thorin said is true. That we have to work hard every day, and be there for each other – but that it is worth it as long as we care, and try to reach for our best. We knelt because we know you do. You, Frerin, Thorin... and your father and grandfather. And this makes us proud.

\- I'm proud of you too...", Dís said, instantly drawing her arms around his waist. "You work just as hard as Thorin, and you are just as strong.

\- Am I now, _sarnûna_?", Dwalin said with a wink, and she nodded.

"Yes. You pick me up just like he does – up and on your hip.

\- Right. Got it, lass – you ever were a subtle one..."

And with these words he hoisted her up and on his hip indeed, smiling at her delighted laughter, making sure her gown stayed tightly folded around her shoulders. She made him head for the fires, eager to join the crowd, and I was about to follow with Frerin when my brother held me back, dragging his arm across my chest.

"Frerin, what...

\- Shh, Thorin, she's away – she can't hear. Now tell me. You didn't, before, and now the speech is done, so no excuse. Tell me.

\- Tell you what?

\- What is going on inside. Don't lie to me, I know your face and looks. Don't think I'm too small... I know how to fake too, I've learned with the best..."

His grey eyes found mine and he had that special smile of his, the one telling me he was deadly serious, and suddenly my throat felt tight – almost too tight to speak. I took his hand and we withdrew from the feast, taking a few steps towards the trees – and then he resumed speaking, his gaze fixed upon the fires, careful not to attract attention.

"Come, Thorin. There's no one but us. Tell me. We have to dance for them, in a few minutes, we might as well be honest with each other...

\- _Kudz_ , I..."

But I could not go on. I could not say the words. To say them aloud meant to break down, and I could not afford this. I just stood rigid and upright at his side, and when I spoke my voice was firm, if low.

"What looks, Frerin? I... I was just nervous to speak. I guess."

I even withstood his gaze, the flash of his eyes as they swept my face. Not fooled for a minute. Not judging either. He simply unfolded the arms I had crossed, his fingers thin and strong on my forearms.

"That look", he said. "I guess."

And then he leaned against me, placing my arms around him and circling my chest.

"Please stop pretending", he whispered. "Not with me."

I buried my face in his locks then. He was smaller, he was my little brother – but he was one of the last rocks I still had, with Dwalin and Dís, and the only one who truly remembered days where we both did not need to pretend yet.

I was no proud King, no able Crown-Prince – I was not my grandfather, I was not my father, I was just a boy waiting desperately for news, for a word, anything...

But I did not say a word. Frerin said them for me, quietly and lovingly.

"I miss him too, Thorin. I can't bear to think he might be in danger. Sometimes I close my eyes and I wonder if I'd be able to feel it, should harm reach him..."

I shivered, and my brother tightened his embrace.

"But... But you remember, Thorin? The tales he told us, when we were small. All these places he had been. All these strange creatures he had seen. And the fights, and the way he always managed to come back full of new-found knowledge and experiences... He... He is not like us. He is not a boy. He's strong, and he knows how this world runs. He won't let harm reach them. Him and Balin... there are too clever and strong a match..."

That voice. _His_ voice. The way it unravelled every knot in my chest. The way it dragged me back to shelter, to warmth, to whispered words close to a fire, small legs straddling huge knees, golden locks pressed against raven hair, a hand against tiny backs, holding us close while we felt our father's deep voice vibrate through our chests, full of awe and fear...

I miss his voice.

I miss _their_ voice.

I thought I had them back. I thought I heard them again. I followed them – down the broken staircases, rounding fallen pillars and crushed stone, straight into the Treasure they promised me to be golden as my brother's hair, warm as my father's voice... Piles and piles, a coin for every word I missed...

Gold beyond measure, and I lost everything. I was fooled. I fooled myself. I missed too much. I missed them too much. I forgot to fold my arms tightly against my chest, I forgot to squeeze my lids shut and press my fists against my eyes until dazzling spots reminded me this was the only gold to be found in the darkness...

I am scared.

I do not want to die mad, my brain clouded and their voices fading like empty promises... I wish I could be sure to find them – I feel so lost, the sun is bleeding out on the snow and I... I can only look at the uneven curves high above me... I am so tired... I wish I could close my eyes but I am scared, I closed my eyes too often lately, I squeezed them shut and let the sickness take me, and I cannot think... cannot think straight anymore...

The sun is golden – his _voice_ was golden – his hair his words Fíli's braids Kíli's eyes...

The sky is golden when I look up and I know I passed out, for a few seconds. Just a few seconds – the curves are still there and so is the dying sun. I am the one bleeding out here, and I shiver and cough and it hurts, but it does not matter. Darkness took me for a moment and there was no gold there, just silence and oblivion – and I long for it.

I am tired of pretending. You win, _kudz_. You always won, remember...?

Even that day. Because you made me smile, in the end. Made me smile and break away from your embrace because you had given me enough strength to hope, once more...

"Maybe ' _adad_ has only found Crows...

\- Mahal have mercy...", I whispered, with a shaky laugh, and Frerin brushed my back.

"I have no idea, actually, Thorin. But I trust ' _adad_. And... for what it's worth... I trust you as well. You are doing great – and you do not need to pretend. You already are, and you proved it long ago.

\- _Kudz_ , you can't say such things...

\- 'Course I can. Come on. Let's go back. We have to dance for them, remember?"

I did indeed. We had done it every year – ever since we had both been old enough to wield wooden sticks and begin our training: _Usrunu Kalmân_ , the Dance of the Crowned.

It was not as magic as _Usrunu 'Arsâna_ , the Dance of Fire Dís had learnt to perform with torches, so long ago, along with Erebor's Dwarrowdams who would not dance tonight: too old, too weary, they would not draw runes in the autumn sky, for their moves were made for Mountain and stone.

But _Usrunu Kalmân_ was a dance made to be showed. A challenge, a daring, a proof for everyone to see. That the Longbeard Princes knew the sacred moves, and renewed them year after year – moves made for fighting, for battle, for drums ringing between rocks.

And for grace. Movement. Strength. Pride.

 _Usrunu Kalmân_ was life. It was a promise. A promise for the line of Durin to endure, year after year and dance after dance. Because my father had been blessed with two sons and that, just like steel is forged by iron meeting iron, Thrór's line would not break easily.

It did, though.

I broke it.

I broke it, and it makes me shiver – because I was the one awakening _Usrunu Kalmân_ again with my boys. I brought these long-forgotten movements back to light – I used it to train them, to make them both fast and strong, because I wished for drums and moves once more, because I thought I had it back, the steel I needed so badly. I thought I could have him back. That it would please him, to see a golden and a raven-haired Prince dance under the moonlit sky once more. That it would atone for that abrupt standstill – him fallen, stretched on the ground, and me staggering, reeling, forever reaching out for a hand that was no more...

There won't be any _Usrunu Kalmân_ , not anymore. The moves have died with them, and will soon die with me... I broke it all... I broke it all and I cannot have it back – there is no way back. A golden-haired Prince died once, now another lies slain, along with his brother, and I know I did it, both times, I was the one unable to treasure, unable to protect, unable to endure – I tried to wash away the blood, to fill the screaming nothingness inside my chest with a new life, and I failed.

I failed, and it makes me tremble. It makes me cough and taste iron on my lips, it makes my chest fall apart as pain sears through my ribs, and I want to scream but only manage a choked, weak sound, I cannot even ball my fists, I am just stretched there and I am crying, silent tears spilling and stinging my cheeks, because it hurts, it hurts, it hurts...

 _Shhhhhhh..._

A soft whisper, close – so close. The ghost of a hand cradling my cheek – but it is the wind. I know it is. It has to be.

 _Hush, Thorin_.

I swallow and taste blood. I blink and feel salt. I try to move and feel cold. I breathe, fast and painfully, I breathe like a caged bird throws itself against iron bars, and in the end I give in, give in to delusion, to the fear of being deluded, and let out a whisper.

" _Kudz_...?"

There is no answer. It is just the wind, and I shiver. But my tears have stopped, somehow. And I lean my cheek against the stone, turning from the snow, the sun and its gold. I close my eyes, and I think of that _Usrunu Kalmân_ where everything was still possible – of that Durin's Eve among foreign hills that seems almost magical to me now...

The fires were burning high when we joined the Dwarves, casting long shadows upon the hills, and drawing a warm circle around us. And I remember Dwalin's face, as Frerin and me unbuckled our axes and put our swords onto the ground, and Nár's face as well as he handed us the wooden sticks, his green eyes bright in his old, battered face.

The Dwarves cheered and my brother smiled at me. And as the drums began their slow, entrancing rhythm, echoing among the hills like a huge, strong heart – as the moon cast its silvery light upon us all, crowning the firelight with _míthril_ – I smiled as well, feeling calm invade me at last.

I loved these moves. I loved the way Frerin and me danced, rounding each other, our sticks raised, each of our movements soundless and fluid. We were swift, we were almost silent – but that ballet was a combat, displaying each battle-move and each existing parade, and we hit our sticks to answer the drumming, smiling at each other, finally forgetting space and time.

A drum, a move, a spin, and _hit_.

A smile, a heartbeat, a move, and _hit_.

A raise of his stick, and me arching my back, hearing the cheers dimly, smiling at him as my hair brushed the ground, because there it was – _drum, drum, hit_.

He knew every move, and so did I. We used to warm up like that in Erebor, as little boys, we used to dance it on, and on, until our small bodies grew supple and yielding, until we did not even need drums to make our own rhythm: _hit_ , _hit_ , spin, move, _hit_.

 _Usrunu Kalmân_ had us both smile, our eyes locked and our Souls one. And when it ended, when we hit our sticks one last time – _hit, hit_ , spin and _hit_ – we stood still for a heartbeat, still gazing at each other, because this was life, this was daring, this was us and this was brotherhood. Brotherhood, and a promise as well.

Oh yes, I remember his gaze that evening – that evening where joy and music found us at last, where every Dwarf enjoyed a sound, hearty meal and where Dís got her honey-cakes and was spoiled beyond measure, cradled and hugged by almost everyone, because she was the youngest, and because we Dwarves ever loved children.

She danced – we all danced, because fiddles, drums and flutes were to be out that night, and I remember her swirling and laughing, her gown discarded, as Dwalin wheeled her around.

And I remember us all singing, once the night was so advanced stars joined the moon, the fires still burning, casting a soft light on the sleeping hills. I had brought out my mother's harp and had been playing for a while already – dancing songs first, and then old ballads that had made several Dwarves join in with glee.

But as night grew darker – as my grandfather finally sat down as well, accepting a steaming cup from Nár, and somehow being softened so much by the strong drinks offered that night that he smiled when Dís reached out for him, and actually pulled her _on his lap_...

As everything seemed to quieten, my fingers fell into a slow, ancient song – a prayer of blessing that was said to be passed on ever since Durin's golden days. Everyone knew the melody, but the words were not determined and they varied, every year, according to the needs of each year to come.

And my brother's voice rose. He was sitting close to me, backed up against Dwalin who shielded him from the cold, and I could see his small fingers brush my friend's knuckles, regularly – Frerin's way to soothe himself, cradling Dwalin's hand even as he began to sing.

.

" _A land without King, a King without land_

 _Just look and remember the ring on your hand_

 _He stands, he watches and his gaze is so bold_

 _No doubt in his eyes, no fear of the cold_

 _His arms are mighty, his strong frame unbent_

 _There stands our King, his armour unrent._

 _._

 _Durin protect him_

 _Durin please shield him_

 _Remember your son in cold lands and bless him."_

 _._

The other Dwarves repeated the last three verses, and I could see my grandfather frown – clearly puzzled, maybe even moved. My brother did not look up, he simply went on brushing Dwalin's hand – he had withdrawn into his own mind, but such was Frerin's nature that even then, he was generous enough to share.

And I needed his voice – I loved his voice, and I tried to give him what I had, my hands stroking the chords, my notes reaching out to his words.

.

" _A land without King, a King without land_

 _Just look and remember the ring on your hand_

 _He wanders, he strives, he forges and carves_

 _Silent and strong, a Prince among Dwarves_

 _Six men he took with him, but he will return_

 _And with high flames of joy our fires will burn_

 _._

 _Durin protect them_

 _Durin please shield them_

 _Remember your sons on the road and bless them._ "

.

They all joined in, and I whispered the words too, intently, closing my eyes even as my fingers moved. For my father. For Balin, Dagur and the rest of the brave warriors who set out, praying for their safety and for their return.

.

" _A land without King, a King without land_

 _Just look and remember the ring on your hand_

 _A light in the forge, a spark on the anvil_

 _No words, no smile, just courage and will_

 _Holding us upright, keeping us strong_

 _The notes woven here entwined with my song_

 _._

 _Durin protect us_

 _Durin please shield us_

 _Remember your sons and daughters and bless us._ "

.

And as the other Dwarves joined in, he looked up. Looked up straight at me, his gaze so bright – and I gazed back, my throat too tight to sing, because I would never have made it without him, because he was wonderful and because I loved him, that little brother who never ceased to amaze me.

I remember. I remember the moon, that night, because it shone as brightly as him.

* * *

 **Neo-Khuzdûl translations :**

\- _Uzbad-dashatê_ : my prince.


	5. Chapter 5

**The King of Carven Stone : Part VI**

 **Deep Roots Are Not Reached By The Frost (Dunland)**

 **5.**

Durin's day had passed, and no Raven had come. Every day I searched the sky, aware that frost had begun to cover the ground. The firewood I was gathering had to be laid inside to dry, and the sky was grey as lead, warning us of snow to come soon.

The wind found its way through my clothes, through my thick fur-coat, I could almost feel its cold grip around my throat, whipping my cheeks, the beads around my braids icy against my skin – yet I still faced the clouds with narrowed eyes, day after day.

But no Raven came.

The wooden palisade around our camp was covered in frost – and the ground had become slippery. My breath was whirling before me, sending out a silent prayer that became more desperate every day.

 _Let them be safe._

That day I had left the house even earlier than usual, careful not to wake my siblings who had begun to sleep huddled together in Frerin's bed. I had walked past my bed that was now Dwalin's, and had tied my boots as silently as I could, opening the door just enough to slide out – it was cold in my father's room, his room that was now mine, and I would barely feel the difference outside.

I watched the sun rise, throwing shy rays upon the dark ground, among these grey clouds that would not break – and I let the wind whip my face, closing my eyes, for there was no Raven. There was no Raven, and I had run out of words to explain this to Dís – to explain why there still was no news, why we would have to wait in silent dread once more.

Just as she does now. Mahal forgive me...

I stood still that morning, wrapped in my fur-coat, and I did not turn when I heard footsteps behind me – when a tall, strong frame found my back.

"Icy...", Dwalin said, his deep voice still rough from sleep, wrapping his arms around me. "Come back in."

I nodded, but did not move. I just stayed as I was, not facing him, my arms tightly folded. I could feel him breathe, evenly, steadily, and after a while, since I would not move, he was the one covering my knuckles with his palm, giving my hand a gentle squeeze.

I exhaled, shakily, my shoulders slumping ever so slightly.

"Right. Let's eat", I managed to let out, in the end, and Dwalin simply squeezed my hand again, leading me back inside.

That day we were both silent in the forge. Worked at each other's side without a word, and I knew he was thinking of his brother, just as my thoughts kept running to my father and the rest of the faithful warriors he had taken with him.

My hands closed around hammer and tong and I forged, on and on, feeling heat on my face and ice in my heart. My cheeks were glowing yet my legs felt numb from the draft running through that tiny, humble forge that would never be enough, and when Nár's voice rose, causing me to look up from my work, I could not hold back a broad shiver, cursing the cold silently.

"Thorin, there is a Man outside asking for you."

I frowned, laying down my tools and wiping my forehead with the back of my hand.

"I know no Man", I said, and Nár shook his head.

"He claimed no acquaintance. Just asked for you. Does not seem very dangerous, rather of the wandering type, but awfully tall. He's with the guards right now. Thought I'd ask you first before bothering the King.

\- Yes. Of course."

I quickly pulled down the sleeves of my tunic and splashed some water on my face, before I removed my apron to replace it with my leather jerkin. Dwalin was doing the same, and as I clasped my belt he muttered:

"I'm coming with you."

I just nodded, feeling puzzled about that unexpected visit, and curious about the Man. I could not imagine any Dunlanding bold enough to come here and ask for me, and I was sure none of them knew me. They had merely dealt with my father, who had never bothered to disclose his own name to them.

As I reached the fence, Frerin caught up with us, Dís on his heels as usual.

"They are so tall!", Frerin said excitedly. "Even taller than the Men from Dale. And they look a lot friendlier than those from here. Cleaner too.

\- _Frerin_...", I hissed, for his voice was clear enough for them to hear, and my brother had the good grace to look slightly sheepish.

\- Sorry, Thorin", he whispered. "But it's true...

\- Hush now", Dwalin said quietly, rubbing a rough palm against his locks, dragging him close. "They do not need to know every single thought you happen to have, _Uzbad-dashtithê_..."

Frerin just nestled against him, softened by the gently mocking title, and I thought, privately, that had I been the one saying these words to him it would have been an entirely different story, but wisely kept my mouth shut.

"Stay with Dwalin and Frerin, Dís", I said to my sister who had taken my hand, and then I stepped up to meet the Men who were waiting patiently at the palisade, watching me come close.

"Light upon your day", I voiced, taking them in for a couple of seconds before I chose to turn to the tallest of them.

They were both clad in leather and dark clothes, and grey cloaks wrapped around their tall, slim frames. They had dark hair as well but their eyes were light, and though I could not bring myself to trust them, for I had never met the likeness of Dale's Men ever since we had been forced into exile, there was something in them achingly familiar. Something reminding me of Cillian, and of glass-clear water running on cool stone.

The Man smiled at me, and I noticed the small six-pointed star holding his cloak together as he moved, disclosing the sword at his side.

"May your hours shine", he replied quietly, and I almost gave a start, for I had not heard that reply voiced in Westron ever since Dale's gilded days.

"I am looking for Thorin son of Thráin", he said, his eyes finding mine.

"I am Thorin", I replied, somehow shaken – he knew my name, yet I had no idea of his, and I could not understand it.

He seemed to feel my discomfort, and bowed his head slightly.

"I am Arassuil son of Arahad. And this is Halgwador son of Halgwedh. We mean no harm, and no intrusion. But I believe your help is needed, Thorin."

And with these words he motioned his companion to come forward, and for the first time I noticed he was cradling something against his chest. A small blanket, tightly wrapped around a thin, dark, shivering frame letting out a weak croak.

" **Roäc!** "

The guard close to me let out a growl as I rushed forwards, barring my chest, undoubtedly thinking it might be a trap, and I swallowed, cursing myself for my foolishness.

"Just lay him down on that stone, and take a step back", the guard said fiercely, and the Man calling himself Halgwador raised an eyebrow but obeyed.

Soon I was able to bend upon the blanket, the guard's Dwarven blade shielding me fiercely, and my fingers shook as I stroked one of Roäc's feathers, afraid to scare and hurt him – but he still gave a start and writhed in the blanket, his beak finding the back of my hand.

" **It is me, Roäc**...", I whispered, not caring for the pain, leaving my hand close enough to him to feel my warmth. " **It is Thorin. Have no fear. I will help you. Tell me what ails you**."

I did not care for anyone to notice that I was not speaking Westron and not even Khuzdûl. I was down on my knees next to Roäc and I kept repeating these words, on and on, trying to soothe my friend, my chest clenching painfully when I noticed the way his left wing was held back against his side, and the thinness of his body.

" **They bound... they bound my wing** ", Roäc managed to choke out, after what seemed an age, but my left hand was cradling his body now, and with the other I ran my thumb across his brow, gently, feeling him shake helplessly against me.

" **I cannot fly... I need to... I need to fly...**

 **\- You will. You will. Roäc. You are safe now.**

 **\- Thorin... I need... Thorin...**

 **\- I am here. I am right here. Roäc. I am here.** "

I do not know how long it took me to truly soothe him – how much time it took to have him cradled against my chest, his once so strong body pressed against my neck and his injured wing hidden between my skin and his feathers.

Chills were still shaking him but he had stopped struggling, and his eyes were closed. His feathers were ruffled and his body hot, but his head felt incredibly soft beneath my thumb and I never stopped stroking him, not even when I was finally able to look up, because Roäc's breath had evened out at last.

"What happened to him?", I asked, my voice icy – for I was scared out of my mind, and could not afford these Men to witness it.

Arassuil's gaze was resting upon me and his face had grown thoughtful, softening his features. Roäc's body quivered slightly, feeling the vibrations of my voice, and I let my thumb run across his head once more, as softly as I could.

"We found him two days ago, injured and starved. The bones in his wing were broken, and he was famished. We managed to bind his wing and to force some food upon him, but as soon as he gathered some strength he has struggled against our help. Your friend is a fierce one... ruthless with his own body.

\- He is not. He does not know you. He is a Raven, not a tamed love-bird."

I had spoken hotly, emotion finally catching up with me, and the Man did not mind my childish words, seeming to understand once more, with that quiet awareness I was at a loss to place.

"He is indeed. We believe a sling-shot caused the initial wound. He must have fallen, and then dragged himself along, but it is unclear how long. We believe it could have been days. A week, even. It is highly unusual for a Raven to survive like this. Your friend had us very much in awe..."

Roäc's body shuddered again, and as I cradled him, spreading my hand on his back so as to try and warm him, he whispered:

" **Thorin**...

\- He kept calling for you", Arassuil added quietly, and my throat tightened. "He said it again, and again. He was looking for you, and as soon as it became clear that nothing would shake him from trying to find you no matter the cost, we tried to help.

\- Be thanked for this."

My voice was shaking slightly, and I turned towards Dwalin who was frowning, and my siblings whose eyes never left Roäc, their faces ashen.

"Go and fetch Óin. Tell him he is injured."

Frerin nodded and jogged off, while Dís simply stood there, wide-eyed and shivering, until Dwalin picked her up, holding her close, allowing her to hide her face in his neck.

Our eyes met and I knew then that we were both thinking the worst – but instead of dread I was only feeling deadly calm, now that the blow was finally dealt.

"How did you know where to look?", I asked, and Arassuil's grave eyes rested on my face for a while before he answered.

"We know of the bond between Raven and Dwarves. And we were aware that a group of Dwarves had crossed the Misty Mountains a few years ago, and begun to settle here. You are known in the villages around. It was not hard to find you.

\- Why... why would you care about our doings, and whereabouts? You are no Men of Dunland, both of you. I have never seen your likeness here, and you do not have the ways of... the Men who dwell here.

\- And you do not have the ways of a simple blacksmith. Just as your settlement seems more than simple lodgings of Dwarves on a journey.

\- And yet it is", I said, somewhat fiercely, because his words stung and because he had not answered my question.

Óin's arrival interrupted the discussion quickly enough. He bowed to the Men, his black eyes sweeping their tall frames, and then he stepped up to me, taking Roäc's shivering body in without touching him.

"How does he feel, lad?", he asked, quietly.

\- Hot. He's... He has a fever, Óin. I do not know if he recognised me.

\- 'Course he did, laddie. He has known your scent ever since he hatched. Huddled against you, he was, just like now..."

His voice was gruff and yet there was kindness in his black gaze, and in the way his hand hovered close to Roäc yet still not touching him, carefully avoiding to cause him any pain.

"You keep him there, for now. We'll have to take him to my house, and I think we have to bid these two Rangers to come there too.

\- Rangers...?"

I had whispered the word and Óin gave a quiet, somewhat disdainful snort, shaking his head at the guards, and at Nár who was frowning slightly.

"Well, yes. Rangers. They happen to exist, if you bother to look further than a wooden palisade. Tall, clever fellows who know a lot about healing, as my great-grandfather Borin would have told you in a blink of his remaining eye, bless his soul."

He patted my shoulder, whispered: "Keep him close" and then turned towards the Men who were looking at him with amusement.

"For I assume you _are_ Rangers... I recognise the star you wear. And the way you dress.

\- You assume correctly, Master Dwarf", Arassuil said with that quiet yet warm smile he had. "Halgwador and myself are Rangers. We happened to travel north from the river Isen towards Tharbad, and found this Raven in woods close to the Misty Mountains."

Óin simply nodded, and then he turned towards me.

"They are trustworthy, lad. My house is not far away."

He still spoke roughly, but his hand moved discreetly on his thigh.

 _Safe_. _Won't see much_.

He knew how I struggled and how much I doubted, never knowing the course to take. I was barely able to think straight with Roäc's thin, injured body quivering against me and the nagging worry in my chest. And Óin knew, and tried to offer some relief.

I nodded, then, and the Men followed us inside the camp, the guards withdrawing quietly to let us all pass.

It was quite an assembly in Óin's house, but he was quick to place everyone at his convenience, and it had been designed with enough space to care for several wounded. Dwalin and my siblings took place on a low bed, and Nár stood silently against the wall three feet away from Halgwador.

Óin made Arassuil and me come close to the table where he spread a clean blanket, and then he asked me to try and lay Roäc down, so that he could take a look at his wing. As soon as his body left mine however, Roäc began to struggle, helplessly, his dark eyes bright and unseeing, his beak lashing out weakly, forcing me to cradle him against my chest again.

" **Roäc, I am here. I will not leave you. It is all right. I will not let them hurt you, they just have to look at your wing**.

\- **Cold**...", my friend whispered, and my throat tightened.

" **I know. Roäc. I will make sure you stay warm. I will keep my hands around you. I will not leave you.**

 **\- Thorin...**

 **\- Yes. I am here. I am here, Roäc. I am here.** "

Slowly, ever so slowly, I coaxed him away from my chest and onto the blanket. He was still shivering, but he had stopped trashing around and was simply breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling rapidly against my palm.

"I have replaced his bones and bound his wing", Arassuil said quietly. "There was a wound as well, but it had closed on its own.

\- Hmm...", Óin grumbled. "I would still like to see the wing. Think you can hold him still, Thorin? It's going to hurt him..."

I nodded, stroking Roäc's chest, and told him what was about to happen. My hand gently closed his beak, and he did not struggle, leaning into my touch, but he still writhed under Óin's moves, and Arassuil helped me restrain him, quietly.

Roäc's wing was soon bared, the poor injured limb unmoving on the blanket. His feathers had lost their shine, and I could feel his hurt in every ragged breathing I felt under my fingers, especially when Óin gently moved his wing to inspect his side.

His fingers probed Roäc's body carefully and suddenly Roäc gave a muffled shriek, buckling under my palm.

"You were right", Óin grumbled. "It was a sling-shot wound. And the stone is still inside. Nasty little thing. Very Goblin-like, if you ask me..."

Arassuil frowned, and the tip of his finger stroked Roäc's body, in a mute gesture of concern.

"I am sorry, young Raven. I have been careless...", he said, and Roäc shuddered.

I gently freed his beak, allowing my thumb to rub circles on his head again.

"Óin, please... can you make him sleep? Can you make him... not feel this?"

My voice was hitching and Óin's gaze softened when he met mine, for they were full of tears. I was past pretending, past acting collected, because this was Roäc – my Raven friend, so wise, so strong, so patient and so proud... and now he was nothing but a shivering, weakened bird overcome by hurt and fever, and I could not bear it.

"Yes, laddie. I have some salts here... they should do. They don't work miracles on Dwarves, but Ravens are tinier. He will pass out for a moment, and I will remove the stone, drain out the wound and bind his wing again. You can tell him so."

I did. Held Roäc close and whispered soothing words to him, even as Óin spilled a few drops from a vial on a handkerchief and held it close to his face, even as I felt him go limp against me with a last shudder.

I kept my hands around his body and stroked his head, on and on, watching Óin draw a tiny cut along Roäc's side, allowing blood and pus to flow freely. He took a tiny pair of pliers and carefully pulled out a small, sharp-edged stone, and then rinsed the wound carefully, before he closed it with a few, swift stitches.

He then inspected the wing, feeling for every bone and feather, and nodded approvingly.

"The bones are all in place", he said to Arassuil. "Couldn't have done better."

The Man said nothing, eyes fixed on the roughly-cut stone that had caused Roäc so much pain, and I saw a look of distaste cross his face briefly, but he merely helped Óin to place Roäc's wing back into the sling, and bind the injured wing against my friend's chest.

"Right, lad. He's going to regain consciousness soon, and I'll prepare you something to try and give him. Meanwhile, he'll need warmth and closeness. And a scent he knows, otherwise he might ruin my stitches..."

I nodded, wordlessly, and took Roäc against my chest, sitting cross-legged on the bed next to Dwalin and my siblings. Frerin huddled against my left side, while Dwalin was on my right, Dís on his lap, quiet and still for fear of rousing Roäc.

He soon began to stir, and my hand resumed stroking his back, quietly, while I was whispering comforting words in Raven-tongue to him. He was unable to speak clearly and did not attempt it, leaning his head wearily against my neck, his eyes falling shut.

" **Roäc... You have to drink. Just a little bit. It will help with the pain, and the fever. It will help you get better, and find your strength back**."

He gave a feeble sound, and Frerin rose to fetch the draught Óin had prepared, and poured in a tiny vial. He handed it to me, his grey eyes full of unspoken concern, and I rubbed Roäc's head with my fingertips until he stirred again, his gaze unfocused and feverish.

" **Come, Roäc. Let me help you. It is all right**."

Slowly, I coaxed drop after drop into him, until the vial was empty. Exhaustion got the better of him soon, and I felt his breath even out as he finally fell asleep against my chest, his skin still hot under my fingertips.

Only then did I look up to find the Rangers gazing at me, and there were a thousand questions ringing in my mind but I could not find the strength to voice any, for tension was slowly leaving my body as well and I felt drained.

"Thank you for bringing him here", I managed to let out, and Arassuil bowed.

"It has been a rare privilege to witness. I am glad we could help, although it was not much.

\- No. It was. You could have left him, or simply kept him with you.

\- Ah, but he would have died, Thorin son of Thráin...", Arassuil said softly, and there was no mockery in his voice, merely clear-sightedness and care.

"Would you mind if I enquire after his health tomorrow? We camp not very far away, and have business here for a few days...

\- Yes. Of course. I will tell the guards. And... should you need supplies, or firewood, they will be at your disposal. Nár will make sure of it."

I looked at the elder Dwarf, apologising for this order, but Nár merely nodded, a look of approval crossing his green eyes.

"Thank you, Thorin. This is very kind. We shall leave you now. Moonlight upon your eve..."

Arassuil's words were spoken as quietly as a blessing, and my fingers stilled in their soothing moves on Roäc's back for a second, before I replied:

"May your night be peaceful."

It was a strange evening, strange hours we spent that night, together in Óin's house, huddled on that sickbed that had never been meant to harbour a Raven and four Dwarflings.

It felt strange to remain so still, to have nothing to do but to sit, and stroke Roäc's feathers, feeling his body burn against my chest – a night-watch without mail-chain and weapons, hours paced by Roäc's draughts, and soft moves in the darkness.

Dís soon fell asleep in Dwalin's arms – she was still so young, and had been overwhelmed. Her tiny fists clung to the back of his tunic, but she was sleeping as heavily as a child could. He gently rubbed his cheek against her hair and took off her boots, and she did not even stir, curled on his lap, her face turned towards Roäc and me.

Frerin was silent as well, but his eyes were watchful, and he was filling the vial and handing it quietly to me, every time it was needed. And as the night grew darker, he was the one suggesting to take turns.

"Wake me up in two hours, Thorin. There's no use in staying all awake."

I nodded, and looked at Dwalin, telling him silently to sleep. He could not speak to Roäc in his native language, and needed his rest – and though it pained and displeased him, Dwalin knew this and stretched himself on the nearest bed, cradling Dís against him.

Frerin curled up on the bed next to me, resting his head on my thigh, while I sat, quietly, my chest hot and burning by a fever that was not mine, and my limbs heavy with exhaustion, too tired to be able to worry anymore.

The hours went by slowly, and I lost track of time. Roäc seemed to fare neither better nor worse, and had not uttered a sound, but was drinking regularly and had not lashed out in pain ever since his wing had been bound anew.

My eyelids drooped and I felt myself sliding slowly against the wall, dragging myself up with a start, several times. Until my muscles began to twitch in the helpless state preceding sleep, causing Frerin to sit up and rub his eyes.

"What time is it?", he mumbled sleepily, and then his eyes found my face. "Thorin, it was supposed to be _two hours_."

He sat up, suddenly seeming wide awake, his gaze shining with something close to hurt.

"You think I'm not able", he said quietly. "You think you have to handle everything on your own, do you? I speak it as well. He is my friend as well. I know what has to be done just like you do. But for you... I'm simply not there, am I, Thorin?"

He was whispering, but his words seemed knives to me and suddenly I felt something snap, deep inside. I could not handle this, not now, not with Roäc injured and our father Durin only knew where, not on top of exhaustion and anguish and distress.

Tears rose to my eyes and my whole body quivered with all the words I was holding back – with the effort it required to keep quiet, because the only one mattering here was Roäc.

"There. Take him, Frerin. Of course you know what to do. You always do. And I'm always failing. It's never right. I know that, but I thank you for the helpful reminder. Mahal knows it was needed."

My voice was soft, and the way I carefully placed Roäc on his lap even softer – but I was burning with pain and helpless rage, and barely able to speak.

"Wake me up whenever it will suit you. Or him. And _kudz_... get lost."

A small, helpless sob shook my body as I whispered the words, turning my back on him, curling up on the bed, careful not to touch him. I dragged my knees against my chest, just like I did whenever we had been camping outside in the cold, and then I closed my eyes, facing the wall, trying to even out my breath and to sleep.

"Thorin...

\- Get lost.

\- Curse it, you...

\- Yes. Whatever. You know what to do."

Hot tears were streaming down my face now, but it was dark. He could not see, and my voice was as icy as it should be. I forced myself to keep still, so still that my body could begin to believe it should sleep, and did not utter a sound after that.

I must indeed have fallen asleep somehow, because I do not remember sounds and moves until a warm hand found my back, rubbing soft circles into my aching muscles. I turned, repressing a groan, brushing my hair from my face that was somehow sticking to my cheek, my braids undone and my locks tousled – unable, for a while, to remember where I was.

"Come, Thorin. Let's both lie down properly..."

I frowned, shuddering slightly – it was night, it was cold, my back and neck felt painfully stiff, and my eyes burned with the need to sleep.

"Óin said Roäc would be better on his own now. We laid him in a round wicker basket and he's sleeping. He has drunk everything I gave him. Recognised me too. And asked for you. I told him you remained the same, stubbornness included..."

Frerin had been nudging me into a more comfortable position as he spoke, forcing me to stretch my legs and rolling me on my back – and with his last words he simply laid down against me, leaning his head on my chest and spreading a blanket on us both.

And when I remained silent, feeling relief flooding me as well as overwhelming weariness, and a fresh tinge of worry because I still had no idea what had happened to Roäc and if it had a link with my father's silence, Frerin searched for my right hand, his fingers stroking my forearm as they went up, massaging my skin gently.

"You _do_ realise, of course, that I never meant any of the things you said...?"

I shrugged and his fingers paused. And then Frerin cursed, quietly, before he lifted his head from my chest and laid his palm on my shoulders, carefully.

"It won't enter your thick head, will it ever? I don't think you're unable. Or ill-fitted to rule. Or... any of the wicked things your mind keeps throwing at yourself. Thorin..."

He shook his head and I heard the soft tingle of his hair-clasps the motion caused, felt the warmth on his fingers on my skin – and somehow my eyes began to burn again, and my throat tightened, because right then and right there, there seemed to be something painfully like my mother in the way he moved, and talked.

"I think you're _too_ fitted. You never stop, and everybody loves it. That's more than they all expect, and we all get used to it. Them, us, and even you. But the strength and energy are yours. And so... when you keep doing everything on your own... like tonight... because you think everybody has the right to sleep save you... it makes me angry."

He was still stroking my skin, and his voice was soft, but there was steel in it. Steel, and so much love as he added:

"And when I'm angry I say things I don't really mean. To make you react. You never rebel, Thorin. You never say... Sometimes you scare me. It's like you have... forgotten that you also have the right to say it's enough. It's like... you've hidden my brother somewhere so deep inside that he cannot be found. And I miss him."

His voice had grown even softer. I had begun to cry, silently, slowly falling apart under his fingers, and his last words did the trick. I pulled him down, I crushed him against my chest, and all that accursed, wonderful time I was sobbing so hard it hurt, and yet I did not make a sound.

"I don't know where he is...", I whispered, in the end, my words broken and still laced with sobs. "I'm sorry, _kudz_. I think he... I think he's dead. And it's... it's... it's better this way.

\- Nonsense. Nonsense, Thorin. He's crying in my arms as we speak, and I'm so freaking relieved I almost feel like joining in."

I gave a small, helpless huff, tears still streaming down my face, and my brother bent, lying down again, pressing our foreheads close.

"I can't afford to be that anymore, Frerin. You know it, _kudz_. You do...

\- No. And it's not _that_ , it's _you_. I don't want to lose you. Can you try to understand that?"

He was rubbing his brow against mine, very tenderly, before he went on:

"You are not smiling anymore. You are always working. You spend every free minute you have checking on grandfather. You don't even take some time for a pipe with Dwalin, and it has been days since you last sparred. Sometimes you come home so late Dís is already asleep – you don't even notice that the only way for her to see you is to meet you at the forge. You're so quiet when you are not settling things or giving orders, so quiet, Thorin... The guards were joking, last day, saying it had been months without you throwing a temper...

\- Why would I?", I let out. "There's no... there's no reason. I'm quiet because... because everyone is doing his best.

\- And because you have nothing left to give. And it worries us. Dwalin, Dís, me... and Óin, as a matter of fact."

These words made me stiffen, and Frerin tightened his embrace.

"I'm not ill", I said, and there was a quiver in my voice I desperately tried to suppress. "I am not... I don't want you to worry. None of you. I promise I will spend more time...

\- Thorin, do you hear yourself?", Frerin whispered, cutting my speech. "We don't want more of your time. We want you to do things for yourself as well. Things you like. Not things that are forced upon you.

\- And how is that to be done?" - by then I had stiffened completely, and my eyes burned again with tears. "How, Frerin? Who is going to be in charge? Who is going to replace ' _adad_... because he's gone, because he might never return actually, because someone has to keep an eye upon the trade and the guards and the food supplies and...

\- We are _all_ going to be in charge. Yes, you should keep an eye upon things, but you don't have to run the settlement on your own. Don't make grandfather's mistakes. Ask for help."

His fingers trailed through my hair, massaging my scalp.

"Roäc will tell us more about ' _adad_ soon", he voiced, not even waiting for my answer. "He's not dead, Thorin. I'm sure of it. I even suspect that he doesn't know Roäc's injured. He could have send him to find us, and be simply thinking we are late with our reply."

Now _that_ thought had never entered my head before, and I grew completely still under Frerin, some tension leaving my body at last as I pondered his words.

"I'd like to see if Roäc's alright", I voiced, in the end, somewhat sleepily. "He might be thirsty. Hurting.

\- Or simply asleep. He's better, Thorin. He's right there. We'll hear him should he need something.

\- Hmm..."

My eyes closed on their own account – I was absolutely exhausted, now that my tears had stopped, now that every word was finally out. Now that Frerin was huddled against me, warming me up, shielding me fiercely with his anger and his love.

"So, Thorin... What do you want to do for yourself, tomorrow?"

I could feel his soft smile as he buried his cheek deep in the crook of my shoulder. Because he already knew the answer. Because he read me like a book, always had and always would.

"I... want to know more about this Ranger. Arassuil son of Arahad. About the star he wears, and that strange ring as well.

\- The one with the emerald and the snakes? I was _sure_ you had noticed...

\- Hmm..." - my smile mirrored his, as I shifted slightly to find a more comfortable position. "That ring, yes. And his sword. And... the way he speaks.

\- If that Man is just a simple Ranger, then I'm one of Thranduil's archers."

He chuckled quietly as I wrinkled my nose, and then his fingers closed upon mine, firmly.

"Sounds good, Thorin. Tomorrow, the sons of Thráin are going to find out who tall-legged Arassuil truly is, make him spill all his secrets until Borin – _bless his soul_ – pales in comparison to our new-found knowledge.

\- I hope he's a good Man", I said, quietly. "I think I like him, Frerin.

\- He is. Because he likes you too, Thorin."

He smiled, and I closed my eyes for good, resting my cheek upon his locks, drawing my arms around him and letting out a deep sigh that almost caused me to miss his last words.

"And that's a good way for me to show his quality."

* * *

 **Neo-Khuzdûl translations:**

\- _Uzbad-dashtithê_ : my little Prince.


	6. Chapter 6

**The King of Carven Stone : Part VI**

 **Deep Roots Are Not Reached By The Frost (Dunland)**

 **6.**

"They crossed the Misty Mountains and reached Rohan a week before Durin's Day."

Roäc's voice was faint and hoarse, and he was shivering, but he had asked to be lifted out of his basket as soon as his body had begun to fight off fever-sleep, and was facing us as upright as he could, perched on Óin's wooden table. His wing was in a sling, and his feathers had lost their shine, but his black eyes were lucid, and he never lowered his head, not even when my grandfather sat himself on the bench next to me.

It was a strange sight to behold, my grandfather's massive frame, his icy gaze fixed upon Roäc, his hands stone-still in his lap. He never said a word. He just came in, as soon as it became clear Roäc was recovered enough to answer some questions – but he never asked any. Thrór's simply gave a quick nod, and I guess Roäc felt grateful he did not show compassion or care – treating him as he would have with one of his envoys, not dwelling on his injury and thinness.

As it was, Roäc's kept his gaze fixed on my grandfather's face, even though I was the one prompting him to speak.

"It was not long before they came across a merchant's caravan. There have been troubles in the Gap of Rohan these last years, and the Men were eager for the protection Prince Thráin's men had to offer. We had joined them two days before the agreement was struck – my father sent me with four other Ravens, so as to be sure we would always be able to fly in pairs."

Roäc shuddered, but forced his body upright once more.

"We waited for them to set out, and then we flew back to inform you they were heading towards the White Mountains and Gondor. A Raven called… Bran. And me. I did not – I wanted to set out first. I wanted to be there. For Durin's Day."

My grandfather's face softened slightly then, and he gave another nod. I guess that is when I realized, with a pang in my chest, just how much it had meant to him to keep a sliver of tradition and composure, even in Dunland's wilderness… and how much our fate mattered to the Ravens.

"I did not see the Goblins coming. I was… Forgive me, _uzbadê_. I never thought there would be any danger in travelling even by night-time. I just assumed we would be faster. And when the first attack began, it was too late. Their stones got Bran first, and I watched him fall and break against sharp-pointed rocks, and -"

Another shiver went through his frame, and I could see just how much strength it cost him to keep talking, but I did not know how to tell him how sorry I felt, how little I felt entitled to blame him for anything that had happened, how much I wanted him to just rest and recover…

"But you outwitted them, Roäc. You did not let them break you… _You came back to us_."

I do not know how Frerin managed it. To put such warmth and care into that last sentence that I almost shivered too. He was looking at Roäc, and there was so much light in his grey eyes, so much all-encompassing love that somehow, he drew enough strength from it to resume speaking.

"Yes. I did… When the stone found my side, I… I could not breathe. I almost fell. But I knew it would have meant death, and so I kept flying. I… do not remember how long. Enough to leave the caves and rocks behind. I do not recall what happened afterwards. I probably fell, once I reached the forest. When I regained consciousness, I was on the ground and my wing was broken. After that… I walked."

There was a mixture of hurt and pride in Roäc's gaze, and this time I was the one speaking gently, my hand moving slowly towards him.

"Until Arassuil and his men found you.

\- Yes..."

Roäc's body spelled nothing but exhaustion by then, and he allowed himself to lean against my curled fist.

"Forgive me, _uzbadê_. I can tell you nothing more about your son, and his company. I… barely remember reaching the Men who rescued me. All I know is that, when I left them, they were hale, and that the Goblins never made a move to leave the Mountains… I trust they will send news soon… I just hope my companions will not make my mistake."

Again my grandfather bowed, and this time Roäc closed his eyes. I felt Thrór move, the absence of his warm, solid weight at my side making me feel strangely exposed, and then I took Roäc in my arms, cradling him gently against my chest, for I could feel him shiver.

"Thorin… Frerin…

\- Hush, Roäc.

\- Rest now", my brother added, his voice very soft. "I am going to get you more water, and a blanket to warm you up."

He stood up, and smiled when he caught my grateful look. I had begun to stroke Roäc's feathers, instinctively knowing he would not see it as misplaced pity this time. And then my friend spoke again, this time in his native language:

" **You do not blame me…?**

 **\- What for, Roäc? How could I possibly blame you?**

 **\- For Bran's death. For thinking I was able, and bringing you weeks of sorrow instead.** "

My fingers found his head, then, drawing soothing circles into the incredible softness of the feathers growing there.

" **I am sorry he died. I am sorry you got injured. But Roäc… you give me hope. I thought – I thought they were starving. Injured, somewhere in the Mountains. And now… I still do not know, but I am just glad you are here. I have… missed you.**

 **\- And I you...** ", Roäc sighed, and after that he was silent, allowing Frerin to coax some water into him, and cradling him back into his basket.

"You know", Dwalin began once we found ourselves out in the cold again, heading for the forges to resume a sort-of routine, "I didn't get that last bit. But if had to bet, I'd say that's proof, Thorin.

\- Proof of what?", I asked, my eyes narrowed – I did not really like the suppressed mirth in his gaze, even though I was glad to see that Roäc's tale seemed to have eased some of Dwalin's fears as well.

"Of you acknowledging that, behind that fair amount of grumpiness and stubbornness and _no-nonsense-there's-work-to-be-done_ , you are a real softie, sparrow."

I faced him, speechless and open-mouthed, right there on the slippery frost-covered ground, struggling to process what his words had just begun to stir, deep inside my chest.

"I'm not!"

Indignation. Disbelief – rightful anger, because _how could he dare_?

"You are…" - he was laughing now, almost hiccuping, and there was provocation and jubilation in every single gesture of him as he raised his face towards the sky, stretched out his arms and simply cried out in glee: "… a softieeeeeeee!"

 _Snap_. I still remember it, that little moment where it broke, it crackled, crumbled to dust, that iron-armour I had tried to build around myself so as to keep cold-headed, able, and grown-up, so as to be able to take my father's place and care for them all.

"You...", I growled, hurling myself at him, kicking his feet from under him with a well-placed sweeping move, and getting down on the ground with him, hands locked around his wrists. "… are in _trouble_ , Dwalin son of Fundin.

\- Oh hello there!", he grinned, making sure to coat his words in the roughest accent possible, and digging his knee into my chest before freeing one hand to grab my tunic. "Can't wait to hear the soft words you have saved for me...

\- Oh yes?" - I was panting now, not relinquishing my hold on his wrist, my legs firmly clenched around his hips, and then I grabbed some earth and rubbed it onto his forehead. "What about prig? Pain-in-the-ass? Insufferable… Disrespectful…

\- Lovely", Dwalin spluttered, still shaking with laughter, and then he simply turned, his knee digging deep into my chest, until I was the one lying flat on the ground, gasping with his weight, yet determined to fight him.

"Out of shape, sparrow?

\- No!" - my arm shot out, barring his stomach, and after that – I guess we wrestled for enough time to get us both ruddy-cheeked and panting, dishevelled and our faces covered with dirty streaks of earth.

That is when I felt it. Bubbling deep inside, even with Dwalin's knuckles digging through my ribs, somewhere towards the end of our wrestle. I smiled, despite of myself, and my legs softened their grip around him, while his fists opened, his hand resting against my chest instead.

"What?", he asked, grinning up at me.

"You did it on purpose. _Dwalin_. You just..." - I shook my head, but when he dragged me against him I let him, because the warmth in my chest was spreading, causing me to laugh softly against him.

"Yeah well. Guess I missed it. Kind of.

\- What? Getting mud rubbed all over your smug face? Being beaten up thoroughly?

\- Watch it. That grin might disturb that well-practised scowl of yours."

I rolled off him then, and we took a few more seconds just lying there, shoulders touching, not caring for the cold sipping through our clothes.

"Dwalin?

\- Hmmm?

\- _Imissedittoo_.

\- Huh?"

He turned towards me, but I was already getting up, trying to rub dirt from my face. I was not going to repeat it, and Dwalin knew. His broad grin told as much, and as we headed for the river he simply knocked my shoulder with his.

"Come on. We'd better get a bit shinier, if we want these lanky Rangers to stay impressed."

When I try to recall the Rangers now, it seems to me they are linked with Ravens. With my father, and his company. With anguish giving way to hope… I do not trust Men. I wish I could, because there are things worth loving in them. Things I loved myself – intriguing, and beautiful. But everything about them is so fleeting – their lives are so short, there is barely enough time for them to built something, to hold up values… They do not think of their children, do they? They are too busy trying to survive, they do not care to build a better world for them, because they know they won't be there to see it thrive… They think about their own lives, their own profits, and if they can use you, they will. Body, Soul, and wealth – they took it all from me, when I was still young enough to trust…

Perhaps, though, Men held higher values back then, as I was slowly leaving childhood and learning to know them. I know Girion and Cillian were good Men. Brave Men. Friends. And I so wish… I so wish this Man – Bard – I do wish him alive, and thriving, because I recognized something of them in his bearing, in the fights he chose to lead. I could not trust him fully. It is not in my nature, not anymore – and it does not matter now, does it? This is a friendship that was never designed to blossom...

But these Rangers… These Rangers, they were _different_. They seemed… close. They had something in them, something that I could not place – contrary to the Dunlandings, they embodied no threat. And somehow, I could see they understood.

The ache. The weariness. Exile, and the shame that came with it – wood, camp-fires and frost, when we would have dreamt of the stone's cool shelter.

And Arassuil… I could not make him out, at first. When he returned to our camp that night with Halgwador, he was wearing the same faded clothes, the same heavy cloak with that small, six-pointed, star. But he also carried a deer he offered to my grandfather, bowing low, and several healing herbs he presented to Óin, causing him to hide a delighted beam behind a gruff "thank you".

Thrór made sure to welcome them, but he did not really stay with us. I doubt he was very interested in them, or perhaps he was tired – his shoulders seemed to have sagged slightly ever since Roäc had been able to give us some news, and I wondered if he was not secretly relieved as well. He frowned when I went after him, and I only managed to lit up a fire for him, and make sure he had warm tea before he shoved me away.

"Get out, boy. Don't need you fussing around."

I nodded, and was about to turn when I felt his broad hand on my shoulder. I turned, and he was frowning at me, his blue gaze sweeping my frame, taking in my faded tunic and trousers, the jerkin I had tried very hard to polish, and the tarnished tips of my boots.

"When did you get so thin?

\- I'm just… growing, grandfather.

\- True", he grunted. "You're just as bony as your father used to be. Never managed any nice layer of fat or muscle until he came of age. You must be cold.

\- No, grandfather. I'm used to it. I'm warm."

He was still frowning, and then his hand left my shoulder.

"You take my coat tonight. If you are up to sit with those Men, you can't be shivering. Take my coat, and wrap your siblings in yours, will you? And try to make them behave. Remember you are still the King's grandchildren. I don't want you giving away any detail – nothing about food, and current circumstances, you heard me? We're no beggars, we don't need their compassion. Now go."

And so I left, slightly bewildered, my grandfather's folded fur-coat in my arms. The fires had been lit, and the deer was getting roasted. The Rangers were seated among a curious crowd of Dwarves, among them my siblings and some elder women – and Frerin's animated chatter could be heard, along with the Ranger's soft, slightly amused replies.

"So, where is it you live? Is it far away from here? Do you have a wife? Children? What are your children like, are they as tall as you?

\- Frerin...", I muttered, shaking my head, and then I joined them, sitting down next to my brother, giving him that special nudge in the ribs that always meant 'shut up'.

"Forgive my brother's questions. He does not mean to pry", I said, sternly, before shrugging off my coat and wrapping it around him.

Frerin opened his mouth in protest, but then he spotted my grandfather's fur-coat and his eyes widened. I tried to look as unfazed as possible as I wrapped it round my shoulders, and soon met Arassuil's kind gaze.

"I have often admired your ability in skinning furs, and use them for your winter clothes. It must be very warm. And yet they do not seem to restrain your motions…

\- No...", I muttered, glad he was not commenting on the fact that it was still slightly too wide for me, and that it felt strange, both aching and warm, to have my grandfather's scent wrapped all around me.

I extended a hand and Dís promptly climbed into my lap. I carefully wrapped her in the furs, smiling as she mouthed "It suits you", adoration in every line of her face, then I turned towards Arassuil.

"Your clothes are light, though. Don't you feel cold in those?

\- No, we do not. We use wool, and double their layers. They do not seem thick, but they are. For us, the important thing is to have tight clothes, close to our skin.

\- And to keep moving", Halgwador threw in playfully, and Arassuil smiled.

"And to keep moving."

Silence fell then, broken by the noises of the meal getting ready, and the clatter of plates. It was a good meal, that night, everyone eating his fill. I remember Óin discussing several virtues of plants, flowers and sprouts with Arassuil, and Frerin dragging out of him that he had a young son in Eriador. I also found out, from the few words he threw into the discussion Dwalin was having with Halgwador about his sword, that he was probably a skilled swordsman. And then, he seemed to know everything – he had been to Gondor, knew Rohan, and was no stranger to Dunland either. He kept us entertained with several tales that helped us imagining where my father was, and the lands he was crossing. And all this time, I was struggling to make out who this Man truly was.

"You are very quiet, Thorin son of Thráin", Arassuil said softly, once the night was advanced, and Dís already fast asleep in my lap. "It is hard to guess what your thoughts might be, and yet I am sure they hold more interest than my stories.

\- No..." - I shook my head, gazing up at him, feeling more like a child now that night had fallen, with him still so much taller even seated. "I… do not have much to tell."

He just smiled, and the look of genuine interest in his face was so close to Balin's that I almost choked with the intensity of how much I missed him, and felt my eyes begin to sting.

"And yet you are rather unusual, Thorin – I have met your kin before, and it has always been a pleasure, but you seem different.

\- So do you...", I whispered, and then I looked up at him. "Forgive me. I did not mean to pry. I just… struggle to understand who you really are.

\- And who do you think I am, Thorin? Perhaps I am nothing more than a Ranger, on his way home after a journey to Rohan…

\- Yes, but..." - I tightened my grip around Dís, brushing one of her locks away to give me composure. "You know many languages, and the ways of the East. You are no stranger to the South, as your stories prove. You know the great mansions, and their customs – and yet you are a skilled warrior, so you cannot be just a… a scribe, or something like that. And… the Rangers, they follow you, even though there is no shared blood between you. And then there is your ring, and your star, and… all these small symbols that lead me to think that – if I just knew a little bit _more_ , I could solve the riddle. Make you out.

\- And do you have to? Why is it so important to you?

\- Because I…"

I paused, then. I could not tell him. That I felt drawn to him, because somehow I had the feeling we shared something. That I wanted to trust him, because I was beginning to like him, and that making something close to a friend, here in the wilderness of Dunland, was something so precious I could not breathe it out. That I admired him, and wished I could be more like him, with his ease and grace and knowledge and assurance.

"I don't have to", I whispered, in the end. "But then, you have to promise not to ask anything about me either. It does not matter here. If I… if I still had… I would have wanted you to know. Here, I just wish you… wouldn't ask."

I hated myself for the way my voice wavered. I hated myself for the grief that was etched in my words, making my eyes shine, and Arassuil's face cloud slightly. I hated that everything I tried to build, every small hope I tried to kindle, was still bringing me back somehow to everything I had lost, and the burden I carried. I hated the way I stuttered, the way the words had tumbled out like those of an idiot, and the way I suddenly wished, for a small moment, that I could just _stop existing._

A warm hand found my forearm and I almost flinched. But Arassuil only spread his fingers, and it was gentle, and caring, and I could not bring myself to snatch my arm away.

"I will not ask anything from you, Thorin. My words never meant to hurt, and though I do not know your past, I am sorry for your losses, and for your wounds, because I know you have been made to shine, and not to grieve. I know what a burden it is to have your people rely upon you, for we share it."

I looked up at him then, and he smiled, somewhat sadly.

"Do not feel shame about who you are, Thorin. It has nothing to do with wealth and riches, and achievements. I know a Raven who has been so intent in finding his way back to you that he fought death and infection for more than seven days… and this is enough for me to see just how highly he thinks of you. And I know everyone here feels the same."

I could not speak. I could just sit here, wrapped in my grandfather's fur-coat, facing Arassuil's grey, knowing gaze, and it felt almost like a blessing, the words holding a meaning that was beyond me, and even beyond us both.

"Do you think I will manage?", I whispered, eventually, and the words were so childish, spoken almost like in a dream – and a dream it seemed to be, these late hours, shadows drawn on faces in the camp-fire light. "Do you think my father will… come back?"

Arassuil's face softened even more, and this time his fingers brushed my arm, soothingly.

"Yes", he said, firmly. "For he left two sons, a daughter, and a father behind, along with people he cares for. There are many forces in motion in this world, Thorin son of Thráin, but a father's love and instinct is one of the most powerful. He will come back to you.

\- Thank you", I let out, and my voice was tiny.

"Do not mourn for him before his time", Arassuil said softly. "He is strong and able. And as for yourself, Thorin… I was once gifted with the words of a song, when I was barely older than you – they have become a watchword for me, but perhaps some verses are meant to be shared, like a thread between our races…"

He drew a deep breath, and then whispered softly:

.

" _All that is gold does not glitter,_

 _Not all those who wander are lost;_

 _The old that is strong does not wither,_

 _Deep roots are not reached by the frost._

 _From the ashes a fire shall be woken,_

 _A light from the shadows shall spring;_

 _Renewed shall be blade that was broken,_

 _The crownless again shall be King."_

.

I looked up at him then, and there were tears in my eyes. He never averted his gaze. He just sat there, his hand upon my forearm, and I knew then that, though I could not understand every word, he had just given me the key to who he was. And so I slowly extended my left hand, and let it rest upon his forearm, mirroring his gesture, allowing him to see the small ring I had taken with me from Erebor.

" _Mahizli_ ", I said, my voice very low, and to mouth the Khuzdûl word felt so holy that a shiver ran down my spine. "It means 'remember'. The roots. What was broken. But foes and friends as well. The cold shoulder, and the helping hand. The forges. The anvil. The light. The fires. And the greater Fire. What we are. So that we can endure."

There are silences that are as sacred as moonlight upon cool, dark slopes. Silences speaking of bonding, of shared griefs, of mysterious threads linked together to form a pattern we cannot fathom, because it is beyond us.

Silences where a gentle grip is worth more than confidences.

They left, afterwards, and in the morning they were gone. I would see them again, a few years ahead, but back then I did not know. I just stood there, lingering for a few moments beneath the cold ashes of the camp-fire, thinking about Arassuil's words, wrapped in my grandfather's fur-coat, not knowing if I felt small, or so grown-up it ached.

The two other Ravens arrived that evening. Telling news of a successful journey to Gondor, of well-paid wages, and promising supplies. Of course my father was worried about our lack of reply, but the Ravens promised to fly back swiftly, once they assured themselves Roäc was recovering.

There were no more Goblin-attacks, that winter. It was cold and hard, and I ended up sleeping with Dwalin because I was shivering so badly in my father's room that I could not find any rest, and because he feared for my fingertips – not that my toes mattered, as he pointed out playfully the first night.

The biting cold and thick snow however did not allow illnesses to thrive, and so, when the flakes begun to thaw, we had no death to mourn, and no sickbed to watch. We had made in through the winter unscathed, and this alone was cause for pride and rejoice.

I remember the day they came back. Seven tough, stout, dark shapes, wrapped in layers of clothes, and carrying heavy packs. It seemed to take ages to shed them, ages to be able to face my father and Balin again – ages to look for injuries, tiredness, anything that told of unvoiced sufferings.

Dwalin pulled Balin into a bone-crushing hug, and I could hear my friend chuckle, while my father had his arms full of Frerin and Dís. I was standing close to Thrór, and I was worried for him, because he was breathing strangely, his face paler than usual. And yet, as my father finally reached him, he just bowed, touching foreheads for the briefest second, and only muttered: "You are back", before turning to greet the other warriors.

And finally, my father was facing me – a smile on his face, his grey eye full of joy, looking tired but proud, almost happy… He placed his hands on my forearms, and touched foreheads with me, and I found myself trying very hard to speak calmly, to make him proud:

"We managed, ' _adad_. We kept the forges running, and the Dunlandings have been buying wares throughout the winter. There was enough food, and the houses were warm enough. And we managed to celebrate Durin's Day and… we met some Rangers and… Dís and Frerin, they were wonderful, and Dwalin as well, and… I have been looking after g-grandfather…

\- Oh, _dashat_...", my father whispered, and then he drew me against his chest, allowing me to bury my face in his thick fur-coat, soaking in his scent and his very warmth. "My boy… My wonderful, brave, skilled and grown-up boy…"

 _Don't do that again. Don't ever leave me behind._

My chest ached, every sob I tried to repress spelled these words I wanted so desperately to say aloud, but I could not, and we both knew it. And so my father only held me, shielding me from cold and scrutiny, until I found my breath again.

"Don't cry, Thorin", Dís said softly, her tiny hand sliding between my fingers. "' _Adad_ said he has brought us nuts, and raisins…

\- I'm not crying", I said, my voice rough, finally breaking away from my father, who ran his fingers through my hair, brushing back my braids in a very soft move, before joining his men again, sorting out the packs with Balin.

"It's all right", Dís whispered. "No one's watching. And Frerin is already looking for the food."

I huffed, then, wiping my eyes, and hoisted her up my hip. She leant her head against my cheek and smiled at me.

"Will you be sleeping in the kitchen with us again?", she asked, and I had to smile.

"I have been sleeping there the whole winter, Dís.

\- Yes, but… You were with Dwalin. If Dwalin goes back with Balin, it means you will have your bed for yourself.

\- So what, _mamarlûna_?", I asked, somewhat dryly, pinching her nose with my fingers. "If this means you are already planning to sneak in, because of made-up tales about frightening Goblins, the answer is no. I'm done with warming up your feet.

\- Thorin, I didn't make it up! I was scared! And you said it was alright, you said you'd never make fun!" - indignation made her cheeks glow, and she was pouting, but I only held her closer and pressed a kiss into her hair.

"I'm not, _mamarlûna_. And you can crawl in any time. Don't tell Frerin, though."

She just snorted, her haughty look spelling 'who do you take me for', and then she slid down my arms and joined my brother, determined to get her share of food. And oddly enough, I remember that evening surprisingly well. I remember Balin taking pains to draw a mock-contract about the worth of dried raisins compared to nuts, so that everyone got an equal share, and was able to trade according to 'market-values'. I remember Dís coaxing out almost every raisin of my small parcel, replacing it with a nut – she loved sweets, while I preferred the earthy, rich taste of nuts, and we both knew it, but we still pretended to negotiate, for the fun of the game. I remember Frerin mocking us, sticking a raisin and a nut into his mouth, claiming that eating them together was the only thorough way to enjoy them.

I remember Dwalin, quietly sharpening the new knife Balin had bought him as a belated Durin's Day present, and the way he would hover close to his brother, unwilling to let him out of sight, even letting Balin run his hand a few times through his unruly hair.

"Did that young Master here behave, Dís?", Balin asked, with a twinkle in his eye, and my sister nodded, eagerly, while Dwalin blushed.

"Yes. He played with us every evening when Thorin was too busy, he helped Thorin in the forge, and once when I was crying because I missed ' _adad_ he held me, and made me a wooden horse."

Dwalin's blush had deepened, but Balin only smiled, his mirth only showing in the wrinkles creased around his eyes.

"I am very glad to hear that. Very glad indeed…

\- Cut it, Balin. How did _you_ behave, eh?

\- He did not make me _any_ horse of wood", my father said softly, and for a while we all stared at him, speechless, for Thráin was certainly not known for his jokes.

But after that we all burst out laughing, and I remember the warmth flooding my chest that evening, that warmth speaking of home, shelter and a deep sense of bonding, despite the harshness and the strives, despite the cold fears of exile.

And at some point during that evening, as I was chewing a nut, my head leaning against my father's thigh and my gaze lost in the cheerful flame burning in our mantelpiece, my mind was drawn again to Arassuil, and his kind, grey gaze.

 _Not all those who wander are lost._

 _He will come back to you._

No, I do not trust Men. I cannot, not anymore. But this one I did trust, and rightly so, and I am glad for this strange friendship, these shared words, the bridge they formed between our races... I hope the Bargeman lives, and Balin as well. Balin will know how to build a bridge. Balin will know – Balin always knew…

But that evening I knew it as well. That evening I rejoiced, and found true comfort in these shared words. And so, as I sat, I thanked Arassuil, silently, wishing him the same joy and warmth, wherever he was, silently hoping we would meet again, before closing my eyes, allowing myself to feel nothing but my father's hand in my hair, and the soft, happy chatter of my siblings and cousins.

* * *

 **Notes :**

\- The poem Arassuil quotes was (of course) written by J.R.R. Tolkien, for The _Lord of the Rings_.


End file.
